


Keep the Door Locked

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Neglect, Consent Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Eddie Whump, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone's Parents Suck, F/M, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsessive Behavior, Parent/Child Incest, Psychological Trauma, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Wants to Help, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Soft Richie Tozier, The Greater the Hurt the Greater the Comfort, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2020-12-09 00:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: Everyone knew Sonia Kaspbrak loved her son. Some would even say she loved him too much.They didn't even know the half of it.When Eddie finally confesses his secret to Richie, it's up to him to help undo the damage and show Eddie what actual love is meant to look like—and who it's supposed to come from.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday and I decided to gift myself this awful scream of a fic about the creepy way Mrs. K looks at Eddie in literally every scene she has with him in the 2017 film. I cannot be the only one who noticed that. I would like to note that I'm not going to write anything explicit between the two because that is just...no. Brain bleach would be required for all readers and that's expensive. That is not to say awful things do not happen to Eddie in between the lines and have been for a while (so far as the plot of this story is concerned).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this bumpy ride! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

Eddie hated baths. As long as he could remember, he had always hated baths—and yet here he was, stewing in his own filth with bacteria-laden bubbles all around him. The shower head had broken, his mother told him. Incidentally, the shower head was completely missing and a thick strip of silvery duct tape covered the hole where it was supposed to be.

“Showers are too dangerous for you anyway, Eddums. You could slip—you could break your poor neck. You know how weak your bones are.”

Just as he’d learned his medications were all bullshit, even down to his inhaler for his non-existent asthma, Eddie realized that the broken shower head, too, was bullshit.

She wanted him “safe.” She wanted him secured and cornered. Trapped?

No.

No, that wasn’t _right!_ She was his _mother._ She just wanted him safe—she wanted what was best for him, and he didn’t always understand what that was. 

What was best for him, he thought, was a hot shower where the dirt was rinsed away down the drain. What his mother thought was best for him was to be soaking his muscles in warm water. He’d pulled a hamstring in gym class earlier in the week and when he’d refused to take a bath that night, he’d ended up in the hospital getting examined for the sprain his mother was convinced the pulled hamstring had become.

Then the shower head “broke.”

So here he was, scrubbing his skin raw with a purple shower loofa he filled with more and more liquid soap whenever the lather started to thin out. He used antibacterial hand soap and the first few times mixed in a generous heap of hospital-grade hand sanitizer with the soap until his skin started to burn from it. He’d always had sensitive skin.

Or so his mother had told him.

She always told him things like that. 

He had sensitive skin. He had a delicate immune system. He had a weakened constitution. 

Eddie didn’t want to think about his mother.

He felt feverish and his body was aching worse than it had before his mother tried to “massage” the tension out of it. (Muscle aching… Influenza? Meningitis? Maybe it was just a common cold.) She’d paid so much attention to his formerly pulled hamstring which felt _fine_ all day until she’d worried it, then moved to the other. All the while, Eddie was trapped in the murky, soapy water pleading with her to stop and let him be—that he wasn’t a little kid anymore and he could take a bath by himself.

She _hated_ it when he implied he didn’t need her anymore.

“Well… Well, how are you going to scrub your back then, Eddie? You can’t reach it yourself and if you don’t wash between your shoulder blades, you’ll end up getting a skin infection. Don’t you remember your last skin infection? They told me they wanted to do skin grafts to clear it up, Eddie-kins. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to scare you, but you’re lucky the antibiotics helped. You don’t want to have to get skin grafts, do you? Just let me do this for you.”

So she went from massaging his legs to washing his back with the same purple loofa that he was now using to abuse every inch of his flesh. She was much more gentle with him—she always was. Because she loved him so much. She never meant to hurt him and Eddie knew that. She was trying her best to take care of him and make sure he didn’t end up like his father.

Dead.

Eddie was just too ungrateful to see it. His mother never told him so directly, but Eddie knew it was true. He was lucky to have a mother who cared about him, who loved him _this much._

Bill’s parents were hardened from losing Georgie. Richie’s parents hardly had time to even watch TV with him after dinner because they were busy focusing on work. Mike’s parents were dead… Ben’s situation was very similar to Eddie’s own, but he was hesitant to ask any details about it. He didn’t want to “compare notes.” 

Eddie really didn’t want to confirm any of the thoughts in his head—any of the bad, mean thoughts he had about his mother. 

What was _wrong_ with him? He knew his mother was overly paranoid about his health, but how dare he judge her for loving him _too much?_ What the hell kind of problem was that to have?

Eddie scrubbed himself harder until a smear of crimson stained the bathwater. 

He thought about the bacteria he was soaking in amongst the suds—thought about them swimming upstream into his blood like deranged salmon to multiply inside him.

_You don’t want to have to get skin grafts, do you?_

Eddie flung himself out of the tub and scrambled around on the bath mat for a clean towel while also working up the courage to reach back into the water to unplug the tub. Maybe if he called for his mother she would do it for him—then he wouldn’t have to.

He didn’t want to get sick. Suddenly, Eddie was convinced that if he reached into the tub, even with the arm he hadn’t scrubbed raw and bloody, he would need skin grafts. He would be forced to go to the hospital where he was statistically much more likely to catch something serious. He could get a staph infection and lose a limb. 

He could lose _both_ of his arms, and then his mother would have to wash him _everywhere_ like when he was little. He did _not_ want that. He _hated_ when she would do that when she deemed him too feeble to wash himself. She did it out of love, but Eddie hated it so much. It was the whole reason he hated baths.

He didn’t want to catch a staph infection from this bathwater if he reached in to unstopper the tub!

“Mommy!? Can you help me?” He hated how frantic he sounded. He hated that he almost forgot to hide the now half-empty bottle of sanitizer before his mother hurriedly threw open the door. 

“Eddie! What did you do to your arm!?”

“I scratched it—Mommy, I don’t want to get an infection! I don’t want to get sick.” He babbled at her frantically, gesturing toward the tub without being able to say what he needed her to do. He was putting her at risk, making her reach in to pull on the little chain and release the plug. If she got sick, it would be his fault.

Before he knew it, Eddie was babbling apologies and embarrassingly close to tears while his mother sat him down on the edge of the offending, and now drained, tub. She cooed at him and consoled him, got out the ointment and bandages and took care of his chafed arm. 

“I knew I should’ve stayed with you. I just _knew_ it. You scrubbed too hard, Eddie. You’re _covered_ in microscopic cuts now. I should’ve done it for you—made sure it was done _right.”_

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Eddie whined, his stomach churning as he realized what this meant. Tomorrow night and the next night and the next, she was going to insist on helping him until she eventually decided to put the shower head back—if she ever did.

“Let me dry you off. Oh, Eddie, you’re going to catch a cold. I should’ve known better… Here. Stand up. Up!” He hesitated a moment too long and she ended up pulling him up painfully by his left arm.

He whimpered under her touch like a pathetic baby and made her apologize to him. Her thick fingers prodded at his arm she had just tugged, checking for bruises. She never _meant_ to hurt him. If he’d listened…

Tonight was quickly becoming overwhelming and it became so much easier to shut off his brain and let his mother work the fluffy towel over his raw and stinging skin. He felt on the verge of tears even more threateningly now as his mother halted her gentle patting of his skin to focus on a reddened patch on his inner thigh.

“Eddie...”

He stiffened, his arms crossing over his chest protectively while his eyes bore holes into the flowery wallpaper behind his mother.

He felt her nails scrape gently against the enflamed skin he’d scrubbed raw with the loofa and hand sanitizer.

“You’re getting a rash. This isn’t good. Are your pants fitting okay? They’re not too tight?”

“No, Mommy,” he answered, his voice sounding muffled to his own ears. 

His mother pulled away from him just long enough to get some medicinal cream on her fingers which she began massaging into the abused skin on both of his inner thighs. 

“No? It looks like you’ve been chafing. We’ll get you new pants tomorrow. I bet it’s from riding that bike of yours. Rubbing your poor skin raw… You know you have sensitive skin, Eddums.” The very instant she said it, the backs of herfingers brushed between his legs as she rubbed the cream on a little bit further into the crook of his thigh. 

His eyes leaked tears and he was too afraid to move to wipe them away. 

“Oh… Eddie. Eddie, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.” Her hands were now on both his cheeks, her thumbs brushing away his tears—then she was smoothing his hair and kissing his temple. “I just need to take better care of you. Mommy’s sorry, Eddie.”

She hugged him and Eddie’s natural response was to hug her back, even though he was naked and his mother had the towel folded away from his reach on the counter. 

( ) ( ) ( )

“Richie, take a bath. You smell godawful. You’re lucky you even have friends willing to put up with it.”

“Oh, oui oui, Madame! With ze oilz and all! Will be fresheyer zan zee dazies. Hon Hon!” 

Richie’s mother passed through the living room long enough to set down two boxes of pizza and a stack of plastic cups to go with their two-liters of soda. She gave what Richie called her “daily follow-up” which consisted of a condensed version of the welcome home speech Eddie got at his house. 

How was school? 

Eh. Work? 

Fine. By the way, has any one told you your hair is greasy and you smell bad?

Richie replied with his newfound French accent and his mother didn’t answer him. His gaze trailed after her as she walked away without acknowledging him or his effort to entertain her. 

“Maybe she’d stick around more if you didn’t smell like a cow pie,” Eddie quipped, getting the puppy-dog look off of Richie’s face.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot to shower after I finished boning your mom,” Richie answered, flipping open one of the pizza boxes and cramming half a piece down his throat while exhaling in pain at how hot it was.

“I don’t think you smell that bad, Trashmouth,” Stanley said, taking a piece of pizza for himself.

“N-No wo-worse than n-normal,” Bill added, laughing as Richie threw a pepperoni at his face and missed. 

“Your aim’s as bad as your eyesight,” Stan joked.

“No shit, dingus,” Richie answered with his mouth wrapped around another piece of pizza. “I can’t throw if I can’t fuckin’ see.”

“Language, Richard!” Richie’s father was home, opening the door, rebuking his son, and then disappearing before Richie could even answer him.

Eddie felt so much better here than at his house. He could be himself—he could eat pizza without being warned about sticky-fingered high school kids who didn’t wear gloves or hair nets when making the food. If he got sauce on the corner of his mouth, none of his friends noticed or tried to wipe it away with a napkin, or worse, a thumb. 

There was so much _space._ He shouldn’t envy Richie when it was so painfully obvious that the other boy wanted his parents’ attention, but he did. Eddie dreamed of coming home and just saying “school was fine, I’m going to do homework” and that be the end of it. No digging for more details, no invasive examinations of his clothes and sometimes the skin beneath. 

Eddie was a bad son the way Richie’s parents were bad parents. 

Was it so wrong to dream that they deserved each other? That maybe he and Richie could trade places? Eddie could come home and be left on his own, no Mommy trying to help him in the tub or rub ointment into the skin he’d just finished scrubbing her finger prints off of. Richie could have a mother to dote on him and hang on his every word. 

Deep in the pit of his stomach though, he knew Richie wouldn’t like what his mother did any more than Eddie. 

Or maybe he’d be a good son and would see it for the love and concern it was. Everything his mother did was out of love. Eddie was just too ungrateful to appreciate it. Richie was starved for attention—he would love it. He would give Eddie’s mother the love she actually deserved, the son she deserved.

In a way, it made Eddie mad. He _wanted_ to be good. He tried. He did whatever his mom asked unless she took it too far (like when she forbade him to see his friends), but he was so unappreciative of her attention. There was just something _wrong_ with him. Richie was normal. Richie _wanted_ attention. Eddie was defective, broken somehow in a way that made him not want any kind of motherly affection. 

Did he think he was _better_ than her? Was that his problem? That he was too good to respect her?

“Are you gonna eat or not?” 

Eddie found a piece of pizza being wagged in his face by Richie who probably hadn’t washed his hands in who knows how long. 

“S-Stop t-trying to stick p-p-pizza up hi-his nose. If he g-gets s-sauce on it, Mrs. K will th-think he’s g-got a bloody n-nose and he’ll spend th-the night in the ho-hospital with tampons u-up his nose.” 

“I can’t even tell you how many times that’s _actually_ happened,” Eddie said, grabbing the piece of pizza from Richie and taking a bite. 

Richie turned up the volume on the television until his mother came into the room to tell him to turn it down, and they ate until both pizzas were gone. It was going on nine o’clock and Eddie knew his mother would be wanting him home soon…

To take his bath and go to bed…

He didn’t want to go, but asking to stay the night outright wasn’t exactly something Eddie felt comfortable with and it was much too late to ask his mom for permission. He could practically hear her crying down the phone line already, asking why he didn’t want to spend any time with her—why he thought he was too good to spend time with his mother.

“Well, this has been fun but I’m late to appointment to bang Mrs. Uris—”

“Don’t you even fuckin’ dare,” Stan snapped, his voice frighteningly level.

“Did I say Mrs. Uris? Hahaha, of course I meant Mrs. K. She has a _much_ more ample bosom for this heavy head!” Whatever accent he was trying to put on, Eddie couldn’t even begin to place it—but this whole screwing his mom joke was wearing paper thin.

“You mean empty head?” Eddie asked, knowing he should get up from the couch and start making his way to the door. Bill was already slipping on his shoes. 

“Better than an empty heart—and your dear old mum fills mine just fine!” Richie laughed at his own joke more than was really necessary.

“Beep-Beep, Richie,” Stan muttered, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, I think if I don’t get in the bath my mom is going to shower me with the hose again—”

“Yeah right, Trashmouth. She’s already in bed.”

Richie wanted them out which wasn’t all together unusual, but tonight seemed different. It was like he was anxious for them to go and it didn’t exactly work in harmony with Eddie’s anxiety about going home. 

“She and Dad stay up super late,” Richie started, probably about to lead into some dirty joke none of them wanted to hear. 

“So then she’s just ignoring you?” Eddie jabbed, not quite missing the minuscule flicker of hurt that went through Richie’s eyes. 

“Are you tryna fuck my mom, Spaghetti Man? I didn’t think she was your type.”

“What did I say about the _language!?”_

They all felt the same cold feeling of dread in the very same instant. Everyone’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, and when Eddie glanced back up, Richie’s face was uncomfortably pale. Something must’ve happened the previous day or earlier in the week because he had _that look._ The look that said he was going to get it as soon as his friends left and he knew it—if he was lucky and his father didn’t start in on him before they had the chance to flee.

“Sorry, Dad,” Richie said quickly, once he regained the use of his tongue. 

Stan and Eddie scrambled for their shoes and Stan’s weren’t even tied as they fumbled out onto the front porch, Bill closing the door behind them. They had to stand around him on the sidewalk by their bikes while Stan tied his shoes, messing up on the left one twice because his hands were shaking. They couldn’t hear any noises from inside the house, but they were all shaken as if they could hear the discussion going on inside. They’d all been there, and they did not envy Richie one bit.

( ) ( ) ( )

“You were out late,” his mother said, her eyes somehow seeming to glow as she stared at him from her chair, the television casting eerie shadows on her face.

“Sorry, Mommy. We were playing Monopoly. Richie kept saying we could finish tonight, but there was no way. I think he was cheating.” 

“I don’t know why you play with those boys, Eddie. I really don’t. Especially that one. He’s so...foul.”

“He’s my friend,” Eddie said sheepishly. He didn’t want to have this argument.

“He’s a bad influence. I don’t want any of that...gross behavior rubbing off on you.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say to that so he settled for staring at her from the doorway, dreading what she would tack on.

“You need to take your bath still, then off to bed. Kiss Mommy goodnight.” She gestured for him and Eddie was almost embarrassingly quick to do as she asked. If she wanted a kiss goodnight, it meant she wouldn’t be coming up to “help” him bathe. 

He kissed her slightly sweaty cheek and tried to pull back, only to find his mother grabbing him by either side of his face, holding him still. Instantly, his stomach flipped and his body went rigid. He knew better than to pull away. 

He thought, for a split second, of Richie—who was no doubt getting a taste of his father’s belt at that very moment—and how he still wished they could trade places. Richie could get the love and affection Eddie didn’t want and Eddie would take the pain instead. 

“There’s so much of your father in you...” His mother said, her voice getting that far away tone it sometimes did as she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs. “His hair… His eyes. You’ve got his father’s nose, though.” She let go of one of his cheeks in order to tap him on the tip of his nose and Eddie thought he was safe to withdraw from her only to have her grab his wrist in one needy hand. 

He could’ve cried. 

“You’re so good to me, Eddie. Just like he was.”

No. It was lies. He wasn’t. He was bad and cruel and selfish. He didn’t stay home and spend time with her. He didn’t like it when she touched him and hugged him for too long. She loved him from the bottom of her heart and he wanted to trade places with Richie whose parents didn’t even notice him except to criticize. 

Suddenly, Eddie was ripped out of his thoughts by his mother kissing him on the lips. He flinched and she let go, looking at him with hurt. He couldn’t have felt worse if he’d slapped her.

“You… You still love me, don’t you, Eddie-kins?”

“Yes, Mommy. I love you, Mommy,” he said, reminding himself that this was his mother. She was supposed to love him and hug him and kiss him. He was the bad one for not liking it. 

Richie would’ve been over the moon to have his own mom even pat him on the head.

“Do you want help in the bath?”

No. No, he didn’t. He really didn’t.

Eddie felt a certain numbness overcome his body as his head started to nod, a tear dripping off his cheek as he did. He felt as if he were a marionette, being jerked this way and that by a sadistic puppeteer. 

His mother smiled at him and wiped away his tears with her thumbs before kissing him on the cheek again and petting his hair. 

He couldn’t even feel the tenderness he was so far gone. 

Eddie went upstairs, his mother slowly following him. He gathered pajamas. He brushed his teeth. He drew a bath. He let his mother help him undress.

He woke up at six a.m. with very little recollection of what happened between his clothes hitting the floor in the bathroom and his body shuffling under the dense layer of blankets on his bed. 

Downstairs, his mother was already awake and making breakfast for them. They had a routine, even on weekends. Eddie still wasn’t quite himself as he sat at the table and took his stupid fake pills and ate his flavorless heap of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. His mother talked to him and he gave automatic responses until after she’d washed up the dishes and they were sitting together watching television.

He was quiet until nine-thirty when he finally worked up the courage to ask if he could ride his bike to Bill’s house. He didn’t know why he said Bill, but his mother pondered it a moment before nodding. 

“Promise me you’ll be home before too late, okay? Mommy worries about you, Eddums.”

“I know. I won’t stay out as late as last night. Promise.” He flashed her a quick smile and was relieved when she returned it. 

“I suppose it’s alright then. Just make sure you take your inhaler. And be careful with your bike. We don’t want that rash getting any worse.”

“Yes, Mommy,” Eddie said, his eyes darting to the floor—unable to handle the weird look in her eyes. Was it disappointment? He couldn’t tell. She seemed unhappy with him… “Is it okay if I go?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She said, huffing. Whatever he’d done wrong, he was making it worse. 

He stood from the couch and stepped up to her chair, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek only to have her turn her face away.

“If you’re not going to do it properly, don’t bother. It’s not like anyone says you _have_ to love your mother.”

“I do!” Eddie pleaded, his heart pounding. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

She turned her face toward him again, looking hurt and somehow starved—needy. He had deprived her of the one thing she ever asked of him: His love. 

To make it right, to make his heart stop hurting, he leaned in and kissed her properly. This time, she stroked his hair while he did it and it sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. 

Eddie managed to get his fanny packs ready and make it through a lecture about what he was sensitive to and what not to touch in fear of germs, he managed to get out of the house and down two blocks on his bike, before he collapsed into the grass and vomited all he’d had for breakfast.

Not only was he a bad son for so obviously _hating_ his mother, he was now wasting her food. He didn’t deserve to be her son. He deserved parents like Richie’s who could barely stand to look at him. 

After a few moments to regain his composure, Eddie got back on his bike and rode at a much slower pace to Richie’s house. He stayed in front of the house for a long time, staring at the dark windows afraid to go up and knock. Richie’s father’s car wasn’t in the driveway so that was a good sign. His father was the only one who was actually strict about anything—his mother didn’t care if Richie was coming or go so long as he didn’t wear his shoes in the house. He just didn’t want to find out that had somehow changed. He didn’t want to go home and he didn’t want to see Bill or Stan or anyone. He wanted to be near Richie—because Richie could distract him. Richie made him feel human again by drawing him out of his tangled web of thoughts. 

Taking a hit off his inhaler, Eddie mustered the courage to go up the porch steps and ring the bell. He realized his hands were shaking as he waited for someone to answer. For a moment, he was afraid no one would, and then Richie was there—smiling at him like last night never happened.

Typically, when their eyes met, it felt like the day before—the hours before—didn’t exist. Visiting Richie was like hitting the pause button on his emotions.

Except today.

“Eddie Spaghetti! I just made some bomb ass pasta.”

_“Pasta? For breakfast?”_ That’s what Eddie was supposed to say as Richie opened the screen door to let him in. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth a few times and then burst into tears like a water balloon pierced with a dart.

“Whoa—do I really smell that bad? Shit, I’ll take a shower. I’ll go right now!” Richie said, backing up so Eddie could stumble into his house. 

They’d never been the best at actually addressing the things they felt. If Richie was scared, he made jokes. If he was sad, he made jokes. If he was uncomfortable, he made jokes. If Eddie was any of those things, he masked it with anger and annoyance—often rehearsing one of the long-winded lectures his mother had ingrained into his head. If they cried in front of each other (it happened sometimes and they never spoke about it), it was the more emotionally grounded person’s responsibility to make jokes until the other cracked back into place.

Eddie did not feel like he could crack back into place. He felt like he was about to split in half. 

“Spaghetti Man? Is… Did something happen?”

“Close the door, Richie. You’re letting in a draft.” His mother, passing through the room without seeming to notice Eddie at all.

Richie did as he was told without answering her, not even to put on an accent and crack a joke. He was just worriedly fixated on Eddie who couldn’t catch his breath to explain, or to lie, or to make a crude joke of his own. He didn’t know what to do and he could tell by the deer in headlights look Richie was giving him, his friend didn’t either. 

“Do you want to go to my room and we can talk about it?” Richie asked, shrugging uncomfortably.

Eddie shook his head. No—he didn’t want to talk about it. There was nothing to talk about. He didn’t remember and everything he could recall was chocked up to him being a bad and ungrateful son...sentiments that would just rub salt in Richie’s wounds. He would be _thankful_ to have a mom like Eddie’s. Eddie wasn’t about to complain to him. Not after last night.

“Shit… Mrs. K told you about our baby, didn’t she—”

“Shut _up,_ Richie,” Eddie wheezed, not wanting to hear about his mother. He came here to not have to think about her.

Because he was a bad son. 

Richie would be so happy to have a mother like his and here Eddie was—

“Pasta,” Richie said, suddenly seizing Eddie’s wrist and yanking him toward the kitchen. “Spaghetti Man needs more spaghetti to reach full strength,” he added, using some kind of distorted monster voice. 

Eddie didn’t want to eat, his mouth still tasting sour with vomit, but he did. He ate the thin, angel hair noodles covered in nacho cheese from the can with as much enthusiasm as he had his breakfast. That is to say, none at all.

Richie didn’t speak the entire time they ate. He was watching Eddie and, for whatever reason, Eddie just let him. He let himself be seen—seen upset, seen weak. 

As he set his fork down into his empty bowl, Richie adjusted his glasses.

“Now that your face doesn’t look as white as Stan’s ass, care to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Richie asked, trying to sound annoyed or indifferent, but his concern showed through in his eyes—already large and magnified more by his glasses.

Eddie, reluctantly, opened his mouth—closed it a time or two—then started to speak.

“I don’t like it when Mom touches me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support! I really did not expect this fic to get many readers since the premise is so...off putting. 
> 
> I struggled a lot with capturing how a kid would handle this sort of reveal and still don't think I got it quite right, but I tried.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!

Richie woke up with a stuffy nose, his face feeling raw where his tears had dried on his cheeks. His eyelashes were stuck together, hardened into clumps around the edges. There was a dull ache in his sinuses that didn’t even begin to rival how bad his ass still hurt. His father had really laid into him the night before, but Richie knew he’d brought it on himself. He’d been baiting his father since the moment he got home from work.

Deep down, Richie wondered if he’d been trying to get caught—because getting caught by his father meant he got his mother’s attention immediately after. Especially last night…

There was an unspoken rule between his parents that Richie had picked up on when he was probably nine or ten—and was somehow intelligent enough not to abuse. 

If his father hit him too hard with the belt and he screamed for his mom, she would come put a stop to it. No matter what Richie was in trouble for, no matter how many or how few blows had already landed—his mother would storm into the room with a loud huff and a, “Wentworth, that’s enough.” His father would scoff at her for being too soft with Richie and she would bark at him for being too rough. They would go back and forth while Richie’s mother hugged him and petted his head—even if she’d been the one to pull the “just wait until your father gets home” to begin with.

Those times when she held him safe in her arms were so few and fleeting… Yeah, Richie figured there was a chance he acted out in order to get in trouble so his mother would comfort him. 

After his friends had left (which he was embarrassed to admit came after his father had given him _the look_), he’d been no less than shoved over the back of the couch and laid into with his father’s thick belt. He was given a lecture the entire time that he only caught bits and pieces of between the bursts of pain. Something about disrespect, something about bad friends or bad influences—something about him being known as Trashmouth wasn’t a good thing. Richie really didn’t know which he was more in trouble for, cursing in front of his father or having a bad reputation in general, but he was _sorry_ by the fourth blow. 

He made it a few past a dozen, though he had lost count (wasn’t ever trying to keep count because that left him _focused_ on it) by the time his dad reached five or six. He’d wanted to call for his mother then, but he was so afraid that this time she wouldn’t come save him—that this time, she’d finally be done with him too. 

So he made it to fourteen or sixteen, or some odd number a little higher than that, and sobbed for her. He was absolutely humiliated at the way his voice broke, at how desperate and childish he sounded. 

His father, all too aware of that unspoken rule, growled and threw his belt aside toward the television, upsetting a partially full cup of soda that spilled and puddled on the carpet. Richie was lucky he didn’t get it for that, too.

“Wentworth, control your temper! Now look at what you’ve done!” His mother came in like a shrieking banshee, blond curls sticking to her face from where she’d just washed it as part of her before bed routine. “Clean that mess!”

“You ought to make him clean it! It’s his fault—”

“He’s got a trash mouth, but he knows better than to throw things in _my_ house. Get a rag and clean it up! It’s going to stain!” She was still shouting at her husband when she knelt in front of Richie, taking his glasses off—effectively blinding him—and brushing his hair away from his eyes. 

“You’re making that boy soft coddling him like that! My father—”

“If I wanted to be married to your father I would’ve had him when I had the chance! Get the rag and clean that up _now!”_ Her shriek was so intense, even Richie who was desperate to be near her faltered back a step or two. 

They fought over him a lot, but Richie seldom paid it much mind. At least when they fought about him, they acknowledged he existed—even if he was just a problem that needed solved. 

“I’m just _telling_ you—”

_“Get the fucking rag!”_ Her ear-splitting voice made Richie start crying even harder, his body feeling petrified. 

“Fine, fine. Don’t blame me when he—”

Richie didn’t hear the rest because his mother was hugging him and that was all he cared about—that and the fact that his ass felt like it was bleeding. No, he was definitely positive it was bleeding. 

“Breathe—Breathe, Richie. You’re all worked up. Breathe...” She was smoothing her hands up and down his arms, his glasses tucked into the front of her shirt. “Go on up to your room. I’ll be there in a minute.” She wiped beneath his eyes with her thumbs a time or two, then cleaned his glasses on the hem of her shirt and handed them to him. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

So he stumbled up to his bedroom and dared to change into pajamas, not at all surprised to find a few drops of blood staining his white briefs. Not a lot, but it was there. He really needed to go back to wearing jeans every day—these cargo shorts simply weren’t thick enough to spare him if he got his dad going like this again. And, knowing himself as he did, Richie most certainly would. 

He had enough time before his mom came to his room to arrange and rearrange his pillows so he could prop himself up against them without actually sitting down which hurt like a fucking bitch. She pushed a mug of mint tea into his hands that he really didn’t want, but accepted graciously, and then ran her fingers through his hair a time or two.

“You _need_ a shower.”

“Can I take it in the morning?” He asked her, knowing she would roll her eyes and say “Whatever.”

And she did, before tacking on, “Was it that bad or did you just want me to come fuss over you?”

So she was catching on… Richie had a sad, heavy realization that this was probably the last time she’d save him if she didn’t see the blood for herself. It upset him enough, all he could do was shrug as a few more tears made their way down his cheeks. 

His mother scrunched his dirty hair, caressed his cheek, rubbed his arm—did all the kind, loving little gestures she always did when he was hurt, in the same order. It was her routine, no different than her “daily follow-up.” Richie tried to drink his tea, even as the steam rising from it clouded up his glasses and made it even harder to see than it already was with tears in his eyes.

“What’s the matter? Do you need me to check it for you? Is it that bad?”

“No!” Richie said, instinctively leaning away from her—the gesture chafing his already sore thighs against his bed, making him hiss with pain. She could tell he hadn’t meant to let the noise of pain seep out and it put her on guard.

“Richie… If he hurt you—”

“I’m fine. Don’t.” He’d rather die than let her try taking his pants down “to check.” What good would it do anyway? Would she slap a band-aid on it, literally, and call it a night? No thank you. He would die of embarrassment the second she looked!

“Richie…”

“I’m fine. Really.”

He wasn’t. She knew it. This wasn’t the first time they’d gone around like this. 

She stayed with him for about half an hour—fluffing his hair, caressing his cheek, stroking his arm, same order every time—until Richie had finished his cup of tea and she had taken it from him. 

“Promise me you’ll take a shower in the morning. You really do smell awful,” she said, placing a kiss on his temple that he leaned into so much he almost slumped over when she pulled away too soon. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked.

And maybe her voice was gentler than normal—maybe she actually sounded worried this time. Or maybe Richie was too exhausted, too upset and hurting too much, to keep his pain to himself for once, because instead of saying “I’m fine” like he was supposed to, he said:

“Do you and Dad even fucking like me?”

He slapped a hand over his mouth as soon as it came out—for way more reasons than he could count. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to bite his own damn tongue off, but he just stared at her with his hand over his mouth.

She looked as if he’d smacked her—then, in an instant, her face was back to its usual cool and collected expression. 

“No, Richie. We just keep you around for the tax breaks.” She was making a joke and he knew that. It was probably the same thing he would’ve said if he were her. “I _love_ you,” she tacked on, returning to his bed to kiss his cheek three times in a row as if she were trying to drive the point home. “Dad loves you. He’s just been under a lot of pressure at work. Maybe try not pissing him off as soon as he gets back from the office. Took everything in me to keep him from going after you the minute he walked through the door—with your friends right there. Don’t act like I don’t love you.” She kissed him again, effectively making the Trashmouth feel like literal trash. 

She loved him. Of course she loved him. She and his father worked so he could have everything he wanted. He wanted for nothing. If he wanted a bike or a skateboard or money for the arcade, he had it. He had anything he ever wanted… Of course they loved him. Who was he to doubt them?

Those were the thoughts that raced around in his head while he cried himself to sleep like the selfish idiot he was—and then woke up with his face feeling like it got hit with a brick. 

He heard his father’s car start up as he laid in bed rubbing at his face, relief coursing through him as he got up to use the bathroom. His mother wanted him to shower and he knew it, but he put it off yet again just so she’d have to notice him to remind him. He did wash his face with hand soap though, making it look a little less like he’d sobbed himself to sleep, and brushed his teeth. 

He was hungry but knew he’d missed breakfast by at least two hours. That was fine. There was food to be made in the kitchen and he really wasn’t in the mood for toaster waffles or burnt pancakes from his mother who was probably the worst cook on this side of the Mississippi. 

This side of the planet, really. Richie saved that one in his mental filing cabinet for later. His dad would get a rise out of the joke because the old bastard knew it was true, and it would get at least some kind of reaction out of his mother. 

As he suspected, his mother had filled the sink with dishes she asked him to do immediately upon sight—though today was different, better than most. She hugged him from the side and kissed his head—a gesture really unusual for them—and actually stood still long enough for Richie to hug her back. 

It didn’t last more than a few brief seconds because, as he’d anticipated, she recoiled when she noticed his smell. 

“I told you to take a shower.”

“Sorry, I was busy last night.”

“If you are not showered by lunch, I’m going to bathe you myself in the kitchen sink.”

Richie had six different jokes come to mind, all of them involving the garbage disposal or genitalia or a combination of both—and caught himself about to say one before he realized who he was talking to. 

“If I take a shower before eleven, can I go to Bill’s house?” Richie asked, pulling away from his mother in order to scour the fridge and cabinets for food he actually knew how to make—and cared to.

“I don’t care,” she answered with a tone that implied an unspoken, “Why are you asking me?”

“Thanks! Can I make pasta?” He asked, staring at a bag of angel hair pasta next to a can of “deluxe” nacho cheese.

“For breakfast?”

“I wanta ze spahzee meata-balla!” Richie’s impromptu Italian could use a bit of work as it seemed to drive his mother away from him. He was suddenly by himself in the kitchen, boiling water to make pasta while fighting to get the can opener to work. 

It took a while and he’d just managed to slap some of the cheesy mess of noodles into a bowl, and fork a mouthful into his face, when someone showed up at the front door.

“I’ll get it!” Richie shouted, mouth still full. 

“If it’s that ditz from Avon, tell her to go the fuck away,” his mother called from somewhere upstairs. And they wondered where he got his trashmouth from.

Somehow, even at the prospect of being granted permission to cuss out a saleslady, Richie was still excited to see someone else on the other side of the door. 

It wasn’t uncommon for one of his friends to drop by unexpectedly, but nine times out of ten it was Eddie. Today was no different. Richie fathomed his Spaghetti Senses must have been tingling and was determined to make that awful stretch of a joke as soon as humanly possible.

“Eddie Spaghetti! I just made some bomb ass pasta.” He felt a twinge of panic rip through his chest when the swear word crossed his lips and he had to remind himself that his father wasn’t home—no one was going to hit him. 

Now, Eddie was supposed to reply with something similar to what Richie’s mother had told him that morning—Pasta? For breakfast? What kind of monster are you? Maybe, with it being Eddie and all, he’d sprinkle in something about health and food groups.

But instead, for some reason, Eddie opened and closed his mouth a few times and then just started crying. Richie found himself at a complete loss—his mind reeling with all the reasons why Eddie would be so upset and why he would come to him if he was. He didn’t look like he’d gotten beaten up—he didn’t look hurt.

Richie played with the doorknob a bit and backed half a step away so Eddie could at least come inside to cry. Give him a little privacy at least. His mom was home still, but she was absent enough that Eddie probably wouldn’t even notice.

“Whoa—do I really smell that bad?” Richie forced out. “Shit, I’ll take a shower. I’ll go right now!” He wanted to pretend to run for the stairs, see if Eddie would give chase—like he could somehow actually cheer him up with one of his shitty, forced jokes. 

Eddie said nothing, but stepped up into the house with shaking limbs. Something bad must’ve happened, Richie thought. Eddie so seldom let anyone see him like this, and though it wasn’t unheard of, it made Richie nervous. He was terrible at offering comfort. All he knew how to do was joke and right now he could tell that Eddie was in no mood for it. 

Richie was honestly downright terrified his friend was about to look him in the face and say his mother died and he was being shipped off to military school or something.

“Spaghetti Man? Is… Did something happen?”

As soon as the words were out, he felt his mother walk briskly past him, muttering something about the door. He closed it without ever taking his eyes off Eddie who was breathing rapidly and staring straight at him. He was giving Richie the look that all the good guys in movies got when there was a gun pointed at their face—shock, horror, betrayal?

Had Richie done something wrong? He was really sorry if he did… Shit, Richie felt like _he_ was going to cry!

“Do you want to go to my room and we can talk about it?” Richie asked him, trying to look casual by shrugging and feeling like he’d just done the worm or something else ridiculous by the way Eddie shook his head in disbelief. 

Richie really had no business trying to comfort anyone.

“Shit… Mrs. K told you about our baby, didn’t she—”

“Shut _up,_ Richie!”

Richie, not knowing what else to do if making jokes or trying to offer support didn’t work, grabbed Eddie’s wrist and pulled him into the kitchen. He tried cracking one last joke that fell as flat as the rest, but he did get Eddie to eat which made him feel somewhat better.

Life always felt a bit easier to handle with a full stomach—or so Richie liked to believe. So he let Eddie eat without pestering him, enjoyed his noodles and canned cheese as best he could. It hurt like hell to be sitting at the table, but he did his best to keep that to himself—trying not to shift around in his seat or move even the slightest bit.

“Now that your face doesn’t look as white as Stan’s ass, care to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Richie asked. He wanted to sound casual so his concern didn’t freak Eddie out—or give insight into how freaked out _he_ was, because Richie could only imagine him panicking would make Eddie feel that much worse. 

Watching Eddie struggle to find the words was torture. Richie kept imagining awful things he could say—his mother had died, he had terminal cancer and had two weeks to live, all of their friends died last night in a killer clown attack.

Whatever Richie had been expecting Eddie to say, what followed wasn’t it.

“I don’t like it when Mom touches me,” Eddie breathed. His voice was trembling, his hands were shaking—his face was back to being deathly pale. His action, more so than his words, had Richie second guessing the meaning of what his friend was trying to say.

Richie really fucking hated himself for the fact that the very first thing that went through his head was a fucking joke. He just didn’t know how else to cope! What did Eddie even _mean?_ How was he supposed to ask without coming off like a jerk?

Luckily for him, Eddie—through a thick sob—tacked on, “Or makes me touch her.”

Richie blinked at him a few times, feeling absolutely gobsmacked, and only managed to choke out a startled, “Oh!”

Oh? What the hell kind of response was ‘oh’? Richie felt so fucking stupid, but literally no other words populated in his brain. Even the non-stop joke factory which resided somewhere between his cerebellum and pituitary gland was a standstill. 

“I-I don’t want go _home!_ I just want her to leave me _alone!_ I’m a bad son—I’m a bad son, but I can’t go back there! I don’t want to!” The words were spilling out of him faster than Richie could comprehend. 

Was she hitting Eddie? Was he afraid of her? What was he even _talking_ about? Richie felt helpless and useless—not sure what to say, or if he should even speak, while Eddie sobbed at his kitchen table and spilled his guts. 

“I just wish we could trade places. Why can’t we just trade places, you know? You’d actually _appreciate_ her. You wouldn’t be a selfish asshole like _me_ who can’t stand to _touch_ her!”

“Dude, I hate your mom! I don’t want her smothering me—what are you talking about?” Richie blurted out. There had been so many times in Eddie’s unending rant that he said he was bad, that he was spoiled and ungrateful, but not once did he mention the fact that his mother was batshit crazy and over-involved in every aspect of his life. Richie wondered if she even let him take a piss on his own without coming into the bathroom to check to see if it all came out okay.

He didn’t know why what he said made Eddie cry even _harder_ or that that was even possible, but he felt fucking bad about it and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He almost wanted to call for his mother—Eddie was scaring him enough he wanted her to come fix it. 

“She’s not a bad person, okay? She misses my dad and I’m not home enough—but I _can’t._ I can’t… I don’t like it when she touches me _at all._ I just want her to stop. I want to make her stop and I _can’t.”_ He sounded so broken and hopeless. All Richie wanted to do was hug him, but was afraid that would make things ten times worse. When he was upset, he liked to be held—but it sounded like Eddie didn’t want people touching him. Richie was at a complete and total loss. 

On impulse, he stretched out his hand and placed it over the one Eddie had balled into a fist on the table beside his empty bowl. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish and clammy, but still sent a surge down Richie’s spine. Maybe he shouldn’t be touching him… But he was too nervous to pull back now.

“Eddie?” Richie swallowed hard, bracing himself for the inevitable backlash he was about to get when he forced out the question he really didn’t want answered. Eddie glanced at him with red-rimmed eyes, but didn’t answer. “What do you mean by she...touches you? Like when she hugs you and stuff?”

Suddenly, as if he’d just realized what he’d started, Eddie pulled his hand back from Richie’s and sat up straight in his chair.

“Nothing,” he said, wiping his cheeks with his hands. “It’s nothing. Sorry. I-I…”

“Eddie, _please!_ I’m sorry—I just… I don’t know what you mean. Touches you how? Like…” Richie didn’t want to say it. Eddie, clearly, didn’t know _how_ to say it, and that made it so much more important that Richie find the words for him. “Like when she makes you kiss her before you leave the house? I mean...that’s kind of weird. My mom doesn’t even—”

“That’s what I mean!” Eddie shouted, scaring Richie enough that he flinched and let out an involuntary whimper of pain as he moved in his seat. “Shit, are you okay?”

“What? Duh, yeah. Whatever—what do you mean about your mom?” Richie said, his cheeks growing hot as he felt Eddie’s eyes on him, no longer able to look the other boy in the eye.

“Richie?”

“I’m okay—This is normal. I pissed him off. It’s what happens. Can we not talk about it? I’m fine. I’m not the one who showed up at my house leaking like Niagara Falls.”

“Okay, but at least I can sit in a fucking chair.”

Richie wanted to make a joke of it, but couldn’t. Nothing decent came to mind and he was still worried about what Eddie had told him—what he was now in the process of trying to take back. If Eddie didn’t tell him now, he never would. Richie didn’t want Eddie to think he had to carry this burden—this four-hundred pound burden named Mrs. K—by himself. 

“Why do you want to trade places with me so bad? It’s not that great here...” Maybe if he shared more about what it was like for him, maybe if he exposed some of his darker secrets, Eddie would feel comfortable enough to let him in. This surface level bullshit was getting neither of them anywhere.

Richie knew Eddie’s mother was a little too affectionate and Eddie knew Richie’s father tended to be a little too rough. That did not mean they needed to trade places. Being forced to kiss his mommy goodbye every time he left the house would be a literal nightmare—and Eddie was so small and anxious, one strike with a belt would probably kill him. Literally give him a heart attack and kill him. 

“It’s not that I _want_ to. You’d just… Your parents—I don’t know. You deserve better.”

“I _like_ my parents,” Richie said, his voice an embarrassing whisper, fearing his mother would pop up around any corner and remind him of their awkward talk last night. “Eddie, what’s going on? You’re really freaking me out. I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart—won’t say anything to anybody. Just… Just _tell_ me what you mean. I deserve better? And, what, you deserve _worse?”_

Eddie fidgeted, going so far as to pick up his fork and flip it over and over again in his hand—staring at the prongs as they flashed in the light.

“My mom deserves someone who actually wants all her attention—” His voice was so meek, Richie couldn’t stand it. Eddie was sad and in pain and he just wanted to know why.

He was scared he did know why, and afraid even more of the implications. 

“Does she like...you know.” Richie’s face was burning hot. He was afraid his mother was around the corner listening. He was so afraid he was going to say what he was thinking and be so far off that Eddie got pissed at him and stabbed him with the fork for even implying such a gross thing. Eddie didn’t fill him in though, and when Richie glanced at his eyes, he had that same horrified, dizzy look on his face as he had when he’d first shown up on the doorstep. “Make you get naked and stuff?”

Richie’s attention immediately went to his empty bowl, unable to handle whatever look Eddie might be fixing on him.

“She… She wants to help with my baths and stuff. Or… Or that’s how she started. I don’t know. It’s normal—it was normal and then it _wasn’t.”_

The “deluxe” nacho pasta was about to make a reappearance in Richie’s bowl. She was _touching_ him, touching him. It was disgusting. Richie hated the way she’d always been so overbearing and domineering, but he’d never imagined she would stoop so low. 

And to think Eddie felt bad for not _wanting_ it!

“Eddie, that’s not normal. There’s nothing _normal_ about that. It’s not okay.”

“She just wants to show she cares about me—”

“So she can buy you a new bike or let you go out with friends without having to _beg!_ Eddie… You know that’s not normal. How many times have you seen my mom try to make me kiss her before I’m allowed to leave? Never!”

“Exactly! She doesn’t pay any attention to you at all—neither of your parents do! My mom is—Mom’s _obsessed_ with me. She _loves_ me. I just don’t appreciate it—”

“I would vomit my guts out if my mom kissed me every five seconds! It’s _gross!”_ Richie said, doing his very best to keep his voice down. “Did she tell you you’re bad?”

“No,” Eddie said, his voice sounding sheepish. 

She didn’t _have_ to say it. She’d made him feel it without ever having to lift a find or speak a word. 

“Then why do you—”

“Because my only problem is that my mom loves me too much. And you—”

“Eddie… I’m fine. I’m really fine. I… I don’t know how to help you. How do I help you? What do you want me to say?” Richie reached across the table again, placing the tips of his fingers over Eddie’s for a moment before the other boy shrugged him away. “Has she…” He didn’t know how to ask this. 

He shouldn’t have to ask this.

He didn’t think Eddie would even answer him if he did—but he had to try. For the sake of his own sanity and peace of mind (if it could even be called that this late in the game), he had to try.

“How far has she taken it?”

Eddie stared at the fork, still flipping over and over in his hand restlessly. “She told me I look like my dad...and makes me kiss her on the mouth when I go to bed. She made me sleep in her room last night… She kept—she keeps _touching_ me.” He fidgeted, his shoulder’s tensing and drooping repeatedly as if he were trying to squirm out from under her. “She thinks I don’t love her and I do—I really do. But...” Tears started to fall from Eddie’s eyes again and Richie wanted to brush them away the way his mom did for him once his dad was through beating him. Given the circumstances, he didn’t think Eddie would want it, so he kept his hands to himself. “I don’t want to have to keep proving it. I’m bad. I know I’m a bad son because she just wants me to love her, and I don’t like it. I made her think I hate her and—it’s fucked up. It’s just so fucked up. She has me on these pills and she keeps saying I’m sick and I know she just wants to take care of me and show that she loves me, and all she asks is that I do the same and I’m so _selfish_ that I don’t want to! I don’t _want_ to!” 

Richie was staring at him, unable to think of anything to say—unable to understand how Eddie really though that any of this was his fault. Did he really think mothers doing that to their sons was _normal?_ Was _healthy?_

Words such as “boundaries” and “barriers” and “lines you just don’t fucking cross” passed through Richie’s brain. Did Eddie have any idea what those entailed? Did he not pay any attention in Health class to realize that _maybe_ what his mother was doing was fucking wrong?

Wait… No, she’d pulled him from that two week section of Health class because she deemed it immoral. 

Of course she did—of course she fucking did.

At the time, Richie and Bill had given Eddie shit about it and made up weird stories about class activities including orgies and being forced to undress for the girls to examine them. Eddie hadn’t laughed a single time, and it wasn’t out of jealousy for not getting to partake in the made-up assignments. 

He was being forced to strip at home...for his own fucking _mother._

How messed up was that? 

And there was Richie, crying the night before because he had to get in trouble with his father to get his mother’s attention. And Eddie wanted to _trade places_ with him. For the time being, Richie chose not to focus on the fact that his friend wanted him to go off with his overly-affectionate mother instead.

“You can stay here,” Richie offered, at a loss for what else he could say or do to make things better. “My parents won’t mind. Mom never does. No one would bother you.”

“Mom would kill me,” Eddie answered, his face scrunching up as if he were about to sob again. He felt _bad_ for even considering it—for even fathoming to hide from her.

“Not if she doesn’t know where you are. I could send a ransom note with a return address in Nebraska. She’d be on a plane so quick—it’d buy you at least a week’s vacation.”

Eddie didn’t laugh and Richie resolved to sit quietly, not sure what else he could do. Was he really supposed to just let Eddie get this off his chest and then let him go home? Ask him to go to the arcade like none of it even happened?

“Richie, I told you to do dishes… And to take a shower. Please take a shower. Your friend can play in your room while you do.”

“We’re not five,” Richie mumbled, watching his mom pass through the kitchen to dump out what was left of her coffee.

“I don’t care. I’m having the girl’s over for book club. Do the dishes and take your shower. Do not make me tell your father I had to ask you twice.”

Eddie was staring at him and Richie felt about two feet tall under both of their gazes. His mother’s, however, was far more threatening—though Eddie didn’t seem to realize that yet. 

She’d heard. He knew she’d heard at least some of what was said. Richie wasn’t entirely sure Eddie didn’t pick his very open kitchen table to spill his guts for that very reason, whether subconsciously or not.

One thing was for certain, this would be the fastest shower he’d ever taken in his life. He didn’t want to leave Eddie alone with his mother for too long. She had a way of saying the absolute worst things possible at the most inappropriate times. 

Kind of like her son—only a lot less vulgar and a lot more hurtful. 

Richie couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let his own mother hurt Eddie too.

Richie felt the need to protect him. He _had_ to. 

What kind of friend would he be if he didn’t?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about selfish parents not respecting boundaries. It was super uncomfortable to write which is why it took so long to update. Hope you enjoy(?) the chapter! Thanks so much for reading!

Richie had just gotten his hair wet under the stream of water in the shower when the curtain was ripped open—blasting him with a gust of cold air that made him curse and nearly fall over, hands immediately going to cover his junk.

“Mom, get out!” He cried, backing himself up against the wall of his shower.

“You answer me _right now,”_ his mother snapped, pointing her finger at him like he’d done something wrong. What he could have done while taking a shower _like she’d insisted_ was beyond him, but her tone was not one to argue with.

His heart was still pounding and his legs were starting to shake—either with chill or anxiety, it was a little too hectic to tell just yet. Part of his mind, the very childlike and irrational part, was scared she was about to tell him he was going to get it as soon as his father got home. How was he going to take another beating when he was barely coping with the last one? He hadn’t even started to heal yet! She wouldn’t come if he called for her this time, would she? Why was she mad at him? He didn’t _do_ anything!

“Has that woman ever touched you?” She asked, her tone vicious—the way it only got when he’d done something _bad,_ bad. Like the time he stole money from her purse for arcade tokens or when he broke his dad’s golf club and lied about it. “Answer me!”

“No, get out please!” Richie said, still struggling to understand why he was in trouble—trying to figure out why she had to corner him here and now to ask about this. He was naked! She was being about as much of a creep as the woman she was asking about!

“Richie, if she touched you—”

“I’d be burning my skin off with lighter fluid and matches! Please get out!”

“You know you wouldn’t be in trouble if you told me,” she said, her voice still frighteningly stern. Mrs. K had never touched him—would never touch him, either—because she hated his guts as much as he hated hers. He’d always known she was too overbearing and she always knew Richie was Eddie’s best friend—the reason he didn’t have to sit at home alone with _her_ all the time.

“There’s nothing to tell! Get _out!_ You’re being weird!”

“Oh, I’m _weird_ because I care about you!? Last night you thought I didn’t love you, and now I’m _weird_ because I don’t want some _disgusting_ woman molesting my son!”

“No, you’re weird because I’m in the _shower!_ Mom! Please, get out!”

“You’re not going to that woman’s house again—do you hear me?” She said, ignoring his protests all together. “If I find out—”

“Mom! Can we talk about this later?” Richie pleaded, shivering more so from cold now as the chilly air outside the shower slapped at his soaking wet skin. The hot water was still crashing down on him, making him both too hot and too cold all at once. 

“Be quiet!” His mother snapped, her voice harsh enough that Richie found himself blinking back tears. He felt so humiliated just standing there under her gaze with nothing but his hands to cover himself (how awful must Eddie feel going home to something ten times worse?), and having her angry just made him fear that she was going to hit him. He was defenseless and she knew it—so why was she being so _mean?_ “If I find out you’ve been at that woman’s house, you will not be spending _any_ time with Eddie again. Do you hear me?”

“But, Mom—” He was still shivering, not missing the way she inclined her head—trying to catch a glimpse of the marks his dad left on him. How did Eddie feel when that sort of gaze had nothing to do with maternal instinct to protect? If that was even what this could be called…

If anything, Richie felt like she was looking for the marks so she’d have an excuse to fight with his dad later.

“Tell me you understand,” she said. He felt like she’d locked eyes with him, but without his glasses on it was hard to tell. 

“Mom—”

“Listen to me—that woman’s life and how she raises her son is none of our business. But she is not going anywhere near you. You are not going over to that house. If I find out you’re going to that house, I’ll make last night look like love taps. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Richie whimpered, looking away from her as he sank in on himself. His mother replaced the shower curtain, but he didn’t uncover himself—still sensing her in the room.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you, you know that right?” She asked. 

“Can we please talk about this later?” Richie asked, wondering how awful Eddie must feel if his mother forcibly bathed him when Richie couldn’t stand to have his barge in on him like this. His mother didn’t even mean any harm—she was just...inconsiderate. 

“Richie, you need to understand—it’s my job to protect you.”

“Later, Mom? Please?”

“Why? Do you _want_ him to overhear? I could have this conversation in the kitchen if you’d like—let him know.”

“Mom,” Richie complained, feeling his stomach drop. He wanted to help Eddie, but his mother was about to make that impossible. She’d heard everything—or at least more than enough—and her answer was to ban Richie from going to Eddie’s house. 

“Listen, I know this is hard for you to understand, but what Mrs. Kasbrak does...it’s none of our business. There’s nothing we can do. It’s my job to look out for what’s best for you—and you will _not_ go to that woman’s house.”

“Fine,” Richie said, grabbing for his shampoo just for a distraction. She didn’t care about Eddie any more than she did about Richie. Mrs. K was being disgusting and his mom’s solution was to just ban Richie from her house? What about Eddie? He had to go back there and let her do who even knew what—disgusting! It was disgusting and Richie’s mom didn’t even _care!_

“Richie, it’d be the for the best if you didn’t go telling people about what you heard. People talk. I know you know that. People will torment that poor boy for the rest of his life if you go talking.”

“I’m not going to… I just...I just wish we could _help,”_ he pressed.

“Well, we can’t. What people do in their homes is none of our business. It’s sad, but it’s not like she’s beating him. She’s not starving him, Richie. He’s fine. He’ll be _fine._ The worst thing that can happen is someone else finding out.” He heard his mother sigh in aggravation. “Like your father… Do you want people finding out? Do you want taken away from us? To go live in some group home in the city? Then you’ll _never_ see your friends again. Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer right away, partially because he still felt like crying and was determined his mother not find out. 

“Is that what you want!?” She asked again, in the same voice she used when she was about to tell his father to take the belt to him. 

“No...” Richie managed to choke out as the first tear cut down his cheek. Pathetic… He wanted to be useful, helpful—to do something good. But, as always, he was reminded of what he was...where he stood. 

“Then I suggest you keep quiet about this whole thing. We mind our own business—and it’s best you make sure Eddie understands that as well. Alright?”

“Fine,” Richie said, voice trembling as he washed his hair and listened as his mother left the bathroom and closed the door behind her. He was ashamed of how much more he cried after she was gone, overwhelmed and confused and just...sad. 

( ) ( ) ( )

After Richie’s shower—after he’d done dishes and about a dozen other chores his mother wanted of him before her book club came over—Eddie was finally able to sit alone with him in his bedroom. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but revealing his secret made him more anxious than before. He was scared that Richie wouldn’t look at him—he was scared that after today, Richie wouldn’t hang out with him anymore. Right now, all they were doing was listening to music on Richie’s stereo—the volume low because his mother had already yelled at them once—and sitting on Richie’s bed.

Eddie was scared to say anything—afraid that Richie would respond differently, that his friend would turn on him. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he was mistaken…

Maybe Richie didn’t care and it _was_ he who was bad and not his mother. 

“You know, I bet you could live in my room and my mom would never even notice,” Richie blurted out, adjusting his glasses as Eddie turned to look at him. 

“My mom would,” Eddie said, looking at him timidly and wringing his hands. Maybe he should offer to go ride bikes or something… Maybe they should see what Bill was up to—anything to escape the tension he felt rising. 

“Well, not if we kill her—”

“Richie...” 

“I’m just saying…”

“Don’t. I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Want—Want to go ride bikes?”

Richie stared at him, making Eddie realized that sitting on a hard bicycle seat was probably the last thing Richie wanted to do after getting thrashed by his dad. 

“We could go to the clubhouse,” Eddie offered instead, getting a small nod from Richie. 

“I call first dibs on the hammock.”

“Yeah, if Stan hasn’t beat you to it.”

They started to make their way downstairs, Richie ducking into the kitchen to grab a couple of cheese sticks out of the refrigerator—handing one to Eddie. As Richie opened the front door, though, his mother appeared in the doorway to the entrance hall, staring at them with crossed arms. Eddie felt about two-feet-tall under her gaze, feeling something akin to resentment dripping off her.

“Where are you off to?” She asked. She _never_ asked where they were going—not once! Sometimes Richie would even tell her outlandish things, like he was staying at a girl’s house or going to the late night drive-in (aka the porno theater), and she’d still just say, “Why are you telling me?” So why was she so concerned now?

“Clubhouse,” Richie said—shocking Eddie with his actually straightforward answer. No joke, no innuendo, no odd gesture with the cheese stick in his hand.

“And where’s that?”

“Same place as always—Bill’s garage.” Richie stared at his mom and adjusted his glasses, keeping his face innocent up until his mom let them leave.

“Was that...because of me?” Eddie asked as they walked down the street, Richie saying it was a nice day for a stroll—clearly not wanting to sit on a bike if he didn’t have to.

“She’s just being weird because it’s Book Club. If she acts like she’s not interested, her lady friends will all gossip about her. It’s all about appearances. Women are always on about that stuff.”

Eddie wasn’t convinced, even when Richie went on a tangent in a haggard old lady voice—repeating made-up criticisms of other people’s parenting. 

When they got to the clubhouse, Ben was the only one there—doing some sort of “bracing” for the walls that had started crumbling. Having someone else around immediately brought a sense of normalcy. Richie was putting on voices like always, harassing Ben about being so “industrious” (a word Richie no doubt learned the day before and was determined to fit into his regular vocabulary). Eddie was able to sneak into the hammock first, flipping through a magazine casually until Richie noticed and climbed in with him—trying to push him out and then resigning to…

To lay on Eddie’s chest. 

“Uh—what are you doing?” Eddie asked, holding aside the magazine he’d been flipping through and looking across the clubhouse at Ben who was hammering a wooden beam into place along the dirt wall, taking no notice of them. It really wasn’t safe to be in here when he was doing construction… One wrong swing with the hammer and this whole thing could come crashing down. Poisonous spiders, rusty nails, dirt and all…

“Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?” Richie said, shifting around so much Eddie had to flail to keep from toppling out of the hammock.

“If you’re going to sit here, you have to keep still.”

Richie responded by intentionally rocking their hammock, rolling himself to lay more at Eddie’s side than on him. 

“Ugh, seriously, knock it off. I don’t feel like breaking my neck.”

“It’s a two foot drop! How would you break your neck?”

“My mom has a friend who knew a guy who broke his neck falling down one stair—one stair, Richie! She said he landed wrong and it snapped his neck, and cut off the blood supply to his brain. He was dead before he even knew what hit him.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No it’s not! Sit _still!”_

“If you don’t like it, get out,” Richie complained.

They continued bickering while Ben worked, Eddie ending up bribing Richie out of the hammock with the cheese stick Richie had given him back at the house. He wasn’t supposed to have dairy anyway, but it wasn’t like Richie to remember that sort of thing. He was the sort of person who would forget his own stupid head if it weren’t attached to his shoulders.

For a while, it felt like everything was going to be fine. Eddie even started to feel relieved. His secret was out and Richie wasn’t acting any differently toward him here. Maybe, Eddie thought, everything would be okay.

That was what he told himself over and over as he rode his bike home from Richie’s house.

Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he’d be okay—

“Eddie! Eddie, get inside! You missed lunch _and_ dinner! How are you even _standing,_ Eddie-kins?” 

Eddie whimpered as his mother grabbed him by his arm and pulled him up the porch steps and into his house. He was led over to the kitchen sink and made to wash his hands, then shoved into a seat at the table where a heaping plate of food was waiting for him. Cold meat, cold rice, cold vegetables in an awful heap on the plate.

“W-Was this kept at temperature?” He asked, thinking about her lectures on bacteria and mold spores and why it was _always_ important to cover and store left overs in the _good_ Tupperware. In the container, wrap the container in plastic wrap (because even the best had gaps that would let air and bacteria in, didn’t he realize that?), and then in the fridge… Not kept out on the table waiting for him to get home four hours after dinner.

“Eat, Eddie—eat! You’re so pale! Oh, I’ve been worried _sick_ all day! Do you _want_ to give me a heart attack, Eddie? Are you trying to kill your mother!?”

“No, Mommy,” Eddie whimpered, picking up his fork.

“You need to eat! Eat—Eddie. Here, let Mommy help you.”

“N-No, I got it, Ma,” Eddie said, holding tight to his fork as his mother tried to pull it from his hand.

“Eddie, let me help you,”she said, making him meet her gaze. She had that look again—the one that scared him, the one that almost looked threatening. 

Any trace of good feelings Eddie had gotten from his time at the clubhouse bled away into dread and sorrow. His grip loosened and his mother was fast to pluck the fork from his fingers.

Bite after bite was brought to his lips—cold food, definitely not kept at temperature. All he could think of was the bacteria being force-fed to him.

No… No, it wasn’t force. It was never force. He never fought. He never said no. He could slap her hand and make her stop, but he didn’t. 

Eddie’s stomach started to gurgle, and even when it began to cramp and he put his hand over his midsection, his mother kept pushing bite after bite into his mouth until he felt he would gag.

“Mommy, my stomach hurts—please,” he whimpered, grabbing her hand and holding it as opposed to pushing it away.

“It hurts? Probably because you skipped lunch, honey. Oh, Eddie…”

His stomach clenched again, churning as a cold film of sweat coated his skin. 

“I don’t feel so good,” he said, staring helplessly at his mother who fawned over him. Her eyes were drinking him in, tracing a bead of sweat that ran down his throat and soaked into his collar. “M-Mommy?”

“You don’t look so good, Eddie-kins…” She put a burning hot hand onto his forehead and his stomach lurched, sending him to his feet. He almost fell over his chair, wanting to get to the bathroom but ending up heaving his guts out onto the floor instead. “Eddie! Oh, my Eddie-bear!”

His head was spinning, his stomach hurting so much he could barely move. Was this really food poisoning? Did food poisoning happen this quickly? Did he make himself sick panicking? He didn’t know—Eddie didn’t know, but his stomach hurt and he didn’t _feel good._

His mother was rubbing his back and leading him away from the kitchen. She was trying to make him go upstairs, but every step was agony. He tried to pull away from her, tried to move toward the couch where he could lay down and maybe get some relief. 

The food—it had been the food. She knew about bacteria—she knew it’d make him sick.

How could she? How _could_ she?

Eddie’s stomach churned again, sending him tripping up the steps toward the bathroom. His mother stomped after him, calling his name and feigning distress.

She did this. She did this to him on purpose!

Eddie felt tears rushing down his face as he sank down in front of the toilet, managing to get the lid up before his mother was at his side. She was rubbing his back which somehow made him feel that much worse as he vomited for what felt like hours until...oh, God, no…

“Mom, get out,” Eddie said, wiping his mouth on a corner of toilet paper, his guts twisting in warning.

“Get out? I can’t leave you, honey! Eddie-bear, you’re so sick—what if you faint? What if you hit your head?”

“Get out! Mom, get out!” He shoved her, hard, but realized it made no difference. She wasn’t going anywhere. He could have no privacy—she wouldn’t allow it. There was nothing he could do…


	4. Chapter 4

Richie hadn’t seen Eddie in well over two weeks. None of the Losers had. They were all worried, sure, but none so much as Richie. They tried to visit him at home only to have Mrs. K block them at every attempt. Eddie was very sick, food poisoning that had ravaged his GI tract and left him bed ridden.

While their friends were content to crack jokes about Eddie being stuck to the toilet, Richie was trying not vomit. Eddie was trapped in that house, trapped under his cow of a mother, and there wasn’t a damn thing he or any of the Losers could do about it. And he was the only one of the Losers who knew why Eddie being stuck at home “sick” was anything but normal.

She was torturing him. She was hurting him. She was killing Eddie, and no one in the whole word knew it except Richie. She didn’t think she was hurting him. Eddie, for some reason, thought Richie would rather be in his place—like her idea of affection was what Richie needed in place of his parents’ sternness and disinterest. 

He had to do something, even if his mother was adamant that he keep his nose out of it. What did she know? He loved his mother, but what the fuck did she know about anything? She didn’t want him going to Eddie’s house because she was suddenly afraid Mrs. K was going to touch him, too, but she didn’t care that it was happening to his friend—his best fucking friend. She didn’t care what it did to him to know that, so long as Mrs. K didn’t try to touch _her_ son. 

Richie hated it, he hated the jokes his friends were telling and the ones he himself threw out. He wanted to see Eddie and make sure he was okay. 

So, he did what he had to do. 

When he was meant to be in bed, asleep, he was sneaking out his window and almost breaking his ankle slipping off the windowsill. He initially planned to ride his bike over to Eddie’s, but feared one of his parents might notice it missing from the yard if they peeked outside at the lawn for some reason. Like if the cops showed up at the neighbors’ again and his mother felt like being nosy. 

Richie walked, limping more than he cared to admit on his now bum ankle. So much for playing the hero… It took twice as long to get to Eddie’s house, and he had to fight to keep back the noises of pain as he circled the Kaspbrak house, looking for an easy way in. There wasn’t exactly a tree outside Eddie’s window so Richie had to get creative. 

He managed, though, after climbing over one side of the roof to reach the other. He had to peer in from upside down which made him feel a little like Spider Man and a little like he was about to fall off a second story roof and die. 

The room was dark and when Richie stayed quiet and listened, it was silent too. He tapped on the glass and waited, then tapped harder, whispering Eddie’s name. This went on a good three or four minutes, during which Richie was terrified he was going to have to find his way back down to the ground and go home—his ankle still hurting. Then, all of a sudden he heard rustling and the window slid open so quick he almost lost his grip on the room in fright. 

“Richie, what the _fuck?”_

“Oh, hey, Eds,” Richie said, trying to sound casual to disguise how excited he was to finally see his friend again. A week and a half felt like a month—and when it came to Mrs. K and her paranoia, it very well could turn in to an actual year before she let him out of her clutches. 

“What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Richie asked. “Hang on, I need to get...turned around.” He struggled to get repositioned on the roof so he could climb down into the window without falling and breaking his neck. He managed to get into Eddie’s room with only the smallest cries of pain, but even that was too much for Eddie to miss. 

“Was it your dad?” He asked, his voice low—both with concern and so his mother wouldn’t hear.

Now that he was inside, Richie could hear Mrs. K snoring down the hall. That was good—it meant if she woke up, there’d be an obvious tell and he could get the hell out of dodge before she caught him and called his parents. 

“No. I fell out of my bedroom window. I kind of hurt my foot,” Richie said, looking down at his right ankle. 

“You what? Dumbass! And you still came over? Ugh. Sit down; let me look at it,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes. 

Richie sat down at the chair beside Eddie’s desk, subconsciously avoiding the bed because he knew too well what had been done on it. It wasn’t that he thought it was soiled, but the bed had somehow become an unwitting source of fear. Bad things happened there. Bad things happened to Eddie in this evil house. 

But not on the chair by his desk. It was way too flimsy for Mrs. K to defile. 

“Richie, your feet stink—you’re gross!”

“Sorry, Spaghetti Man. My showers are where I like to get busy. Sometimes I forget to get clean—if you know what I mean.”

“Gross,” Eddie said, yanking off Richie’s sock and manipulating his ankle in a way that was meant to hurt. 

“Jesus, Dr. K! Your bedside manner could use some improvement,” Richie whined, doing his best not to kick his friend in the face when he continued twisting and pushing on his foot. 

“Well, I don’t typically take house calls at midnight, dingus.”

“Can you even _see_ what you’re doing?” Richie asked, twisting his neck around until he found a lamp on the desk and clipped it on.

“Your ankle is swollen. You probably sprained it. Do you have any idea how much damage you can cause walking on a sprained ankle?”

“Guess they’ll have to amputate,” Richie said, taking advantage of the dim light to search Eddie’s face and form. He looked like he’d lost some weight, meaning Mrs. K probably wasn’t entirely making up the GI tract issues.

“Hang on. I have some gauze...in my closet. Hang on.” Eddie moved away from him, shuffling over to his closet and pulling open the door. He dug around for a moment, then came back with some sort of elastic bandage and medical tape. 

“Jeez, Eds. I came over here to make you feel better. Really fucked that up, didn’t I?” Richie asked as his ankle was wrapped and his own dirty sock was flung in his face by Eddie who then covered his hands in sanitizer from the bottle on his desk. 

“I can’t leave my room to wash my hands. Mom will wake up… She’ll know I’m out of bed. It’ll be back to the emergency room,” he said, his words rushed as he looked around his room as if expecting his mother to be hunkered down behind his dresser, spying on him. 

“I’m surprised she can hear anything over her snoring,” Richie said. “How do you even sleep like this? It sounds like a chainsaw.”

“You get used to it,” Eddie said. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you. Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought Mrs. K might’ve gotten hungry and eaten you alive, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Stop calling me that,” Eddie said, sinking down on his bed, sitting cross legged with his hands on his knees. 

“Looks like she ate all the food in the house and didn’t leave any for you. Now you’ll fit your prom dress for sure,” Richie offered, adjusting his glasses before pulling his sock back on over his sore foot. 

“I got food poisoning. She wouldn’t even let me go to the ER until the next day. Usually she doesn’t make me wait but...this time was different,” Eddie said, looking at the floor instead of Richie.

“Did she hurt you?” Richie asked, biting his lip. He watched the way Eddie’s body moved as he shrugged his shoulders—pretending he wasn’t as affected as he was by the truth.

“Yesterday. She…” Eddie lowered his head so far his chin nearly touched his chest. He was ashamed and he shouldn’t be. His big eyes were flickering back and forth between cracks in the floorboards and his hands. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why?” Richie asked.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?”

“Did you tell the others?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that. You know that.” Richie fidgeted in the wooden chair, wanting to move closer but not able to get anywhere near that bed.

“Good… That’s good,” Eddie said, moving around restlessly as well. 

Richie filled the awkward silence with stories from the Losers’ Club and the things Eddie had missed since he’d been put under house arrest. Eddie told him that he’d probably be allowed to go back to school the following week—if his mother didn’t poison him again.

Because, Eddie let slip around three in the morning, his mother had made him eat food that wasn’t kept at temperature in the first place. She ate none of it herself, saving it all for Eddie—making him sick, ensuring he’d have no choice but to depend on her since he was stuck in the bathroom for two days straight. Now she only let him eat crackers and orange juice, even though he felt better. It kept him weak.

It kept him…

“Weak,” Eddie said, picking at his fingernails. “I just feel really weak all the time. I haven’t had real food since that night. I think she’s really mad at me.”

“Why not sneak downstairs while she’s sawing logs and make something? What’s she gonna do? Pump your stomach?”

“Don’t give her any ideas,” Eddie said, sounding defeated—not at all fiery like he usually would be. “I’m so hungry I could...I could even eat more of that gross pasta you made.”

“Hey! My pasta’s good! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It came straight out of a can.”

“I’m one-quarter Italian.”

“Whats’ that got to do with anything?”

“Means it’s statistically impossible for me to make bad pasta,” Richie attempted. 

“That’s not even—you’re an idiot. The two aren’t even related. You can’t be good a pasta just because one of your grandparents is Italian.”

“Great grandparents,” Richie corrected, relishing the way Eddie’s face widened in disbelief and exasperation.

“Then you’re not even a quarter! Do you even know how math works?”

“Uh, I scored higher than you on our last test. So yeah.” They bickered, just like old times, and then Richie was almost pushed out the window by Eddie because if his mother saw dark circles under his eyes because he was up all night talking, then he would end up back in the ER and it’d be another week before he came back to school. 

The walk home hurt a little more than the walk to Eddie’s house, partially because his ankle really was starting to bother him, and partially because he knew Eddie was being treated even worse—and quite possibly because of him. His mother got upset because he was out too long. She got upset because he was out _too often._

It wasn’t his fault… It wasn’t his fault.

He kept telling himself that over and over, but he had the feeling that it was. Maybe he shouldn’t push for Eddie to hang out so much, or so long. But how was he supposed to feel comfortable with Eddie spending _more_ time at home when his mother was a disgusting creep? 

That familiar sense of helplessness kept him company his whole walk home, laid with him in bed as he stared out his window until sunrise—not sleeping a wink. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Eddie felt the smallest spark of hope when the following evening, Richie returned to his bedroom with food. He had snacks, a Tupperware container holding two meat and cheese sandwiches, and a thermos full of warm tomato soup.

“It’s the good kind,” Richie told him, handing the thermos over with a big, cheesy smile. “My mom made it. Soup’s about the only good thing she can make. Honest!” 

Eddie didn’t know if it was because he was so hungry or because it’d been so long since he’d had actual food, but it tasted fantastic. He drank down the soup and ate both the sandwiches before even looking at the snacks.

“I brought enough so you could hide some. You know, eat them later since I can’t bring you lunch.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said, making a point to hold eye contact as he said it—making sure Richie knew he really, really meant it. 

For the first time in days his stomach felt full and his body felt warm. He ended up nestled under his comforter and blankets, simply to enhance the warmth that was radiating from inside him. He offered for Richie to lay down or at least sit on the bed next to him, but their weirdo settled for pulling up his desk chair beside the bed—like a visitor in a hospital room or something. 

They talked about what Eddie was missing in school and what the Losers had been up to. Ben had finished reinforcing the walls but now part of the ceiling was collapsing after it had rained. Eddie asked about Richie’s ankle, noticing that his friend had trouble walking without a limp even when he didn’t move far across the room. Richie, of course, lied about it and promised to be in “tip-top shape!”

It really meant the world to him that Richie had come back with food. It meant the world to him that Richie still wanted to hang out with him at all after what Eddie had told him. The weight of his secret had become so much, so overwhelming. It had just spilled out—it _needed_ to come out. If anyone was going to know, it had to be Richie. Bill would be too determined to find a solution, Stan would be weak and tell his parents… Eddie just wasn’t that comfortable with Ben or Bev or Mike. It had to be Richie, and Eddie was so thankful that things between them hadn’t changed.

If anything, it seemed they’d gotten better. Maybe it was too soon to tell, but being brought dinner in bed after living off crackers and orange juice was easily the kindest thing Richie had ever done for him. And considering he’d done it with a definitely untreated and sprained ankle made it that much more significant. 

It made him sad when Richie left, but he knew there would be hell to pay if his parents checked his room to find him gone. He didn’t want Richie to be punished again, especially not because of him. But even so, when Richie was sneaking out at a little after two this time, Eddie still called him a wuss for being tired and yawning his whole visit. 

Eddie went to sleep happy, then awoke to his mother stroking his cheek with her thumb. He tried not to tense, tried not to show how uncomfortable he was. He should be used to it by now—he really, really should. But that didn’t make it any easier when she leaned down and kissed his forehead and he knew his job, his role, was to tilt his chin and kiss her on the mouth. 

He didn’t _want_ to. But he had no choice.

“What’s wrong, Eddie? Are you still not feeling any better?”

“I feel a lot better, Mommy,” Eddie said, closing his eyes as tight as possible as he did what she wanted. It was a dry peck on the lips, but it extracted a soft sigh from his mother and a smile crossed her lips. 

She placed a hand on his forehead, like she’d done every morning he’d been stuck here—only this time she smiled a warmer, more nurturing grin and said today she’d make him something for breakfast. His “fever” had broken and he should be able to keep down some food. 

She allowed him to get dressed and join her downstairs at the table. Breakfast consisted of two eggs, scrambled, with toast and few strips of bacon. She gave him a glass of orange juice, but pulled it away from him if he took too many sips in between bites of food—fearing he’d “ruin his appetite” by drinking too much fluid. For her efforts, he nearly choked on a bite of dry toast that got caught in his throat while she had his juice on the opposite side of the table. 

It took all of his will power not to take out his inhaler after somehow managing to swallow the scratchy lump of bread. He was afraid if he did, she would go back to thinking he was too ill to leave his room—too ill to go back to school and join his friends. 

Living with his mother, Eddie had learned that every move he made was watched, documented. Especially after the summer he “abandoned” her in her time of need. Leaving his mother alone for over twenty-four hours seemed to have made her twice as obsessed with him as before. She felt his school day was much too long for him to be gone from her watchful gaze…

“Eddie, why don’t you go lay down while I clean up, hm? We need to let your stomach settle after your first big meal since you got sick.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Eddie said, getting up stiffly from the table. His stomach was twisting, but it had nothing to do with the food or his sickness. “Um… Could I lay on the couch? I-I… I don’t want to be upstairs all alone,” he tacked on when his mother turned back from the sink to fix him with a gaze already dripping with a stern ‘absolutely not.’ She paused when he said he wanted to be near her, one soapy hand absently picking at the necklace straining on her red throat. “Please, Mommy?” He asked, subconsciously stepping behind his chair—as if it could shield him from her. 

Maybe if he showed initiative… Maybe if he clung to her more… Maybe if he was a better son, she wouldn’t feel the need to overwhelm him with her love. It was because he rejected her so much that she’d taken things so far—so horribly, horribly far. 

Eddie was scared to go lay down because he knew what would happen when he did. He would never, in all his life, forget the feel of her, the weight of her thighs over his own. The nauseating touch of her skin sliding along his. He didn’t want to do it again. His heart was pounding in his chest and he thought he might be sick—he didn’t want to vomit. She would be right there watching. She would be touching him the whole time. She would be _right there_ to comfort him and console him and care for him in the ways she knew how that he was so ungrateful as to reject. 

“Well… Well, alright. Do you need another blanket? Eddie?” His mother asked, voice almost shaking. She was so _happy_ he asked to be near her. If he’d just done _this_ more often, none of _that_ would have ever happened.

It was all his fault.

“Um… I-I think I’ll be okay. Would… Would you be able to get me one if I got cold?” She liked to take care of him, Eddie knew. He had to give her the chance or she would take it…

“Of course, Eddie-bear. You go and lay down now,” she said shooing him a bit before turning back to the sink. 

Eddie took the opportunity to flee the kitchen without having to give her a kiss or a hug, grabbing the remote and flinging himself down on the couch. He took the opportunity to cover himself with the crocheted blanket so his mother wouldn’t try to do it for him when she finished with dishes. He changed the channel from the news to an action movie, managing to watch a few minutes before his mother caught on to the sound of explosions over the rushing of water in the sink. 

“Eddie-bear? What’s all that noise? It’s not good for you to be overstimulated!”

“Sorry, Mommy!” Eddie called to her, quickly changing the channel before she had to do it herself. 

He flipped through the channels again and settled on the weather… 

It wasn’t long before his mother came into the room with a glass of water and some pills he didn’t need. He took them without complaint and was rewarded with a pat on the head and a wet peck on the cheek before his mother snatched the remote and put on one of her soap operas. 

Eddie was bored, but didn’t dare try to go upstairs. So long as he was here and appeared to be enjoying their time together, he didn’t think his mother would take things further. 

Until the woman on the television and her lover started sharing a gross, sloppy kiss. His mother started fondling her necklace again, then unbuttoned the top button of her dress. 

Eddie felt his stomach twist, his breathing speeding up as he noticed her eyes on him. 

By the time the show had ended, she was sitting on the couch with his head in her lap. 

By the end of the following program, Eddie was choking back both vomit and tears. His shirt had been taken off of him and he was cold. 

“That’s because you have a fever, Eddie-kins. Let me take care of you. Mommy will make it all better now.” 

But she didn’t… Not for him. For Eddie, it grew worse and worse—foul tastes filling his mouth. 

“Say you _love me,_ Eddie-bear,” she said, her voice almost sounding mean. Why did she sound so _mean?_ He did everything she asked! 

Why was it all still _wrong?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning! The opening of this chapter borders on graphic, but nothing explicit. It is to show how far Sonia has taken her obsession. Also possible TW for Internalized Homophobia, but it's more period-typical and a little between the lines. It's there if you squint.
> 
> Are you...Reddie?

When she finally stopped, Eddie was crying and couldn’t help it. She was petting his hair then, and caressing his cheek with her hot, fat thumb to catch his tears which came faster and faster as he hiccuped for breath. She gave him his inhaler, the spare one she kept on the table beside her bed_—her_ bed.

It didn’t help. He couldn’t breathe. It didn’t help that her thighs were still over top of him—crushing him against the bed.

He was naked and covered in a cold sweat. He wanted let go! He wanted her to get off him. He didn’t want to be asked to do anything else tonight. He was dirty and he needed a _bath._ He wanted to scrub off every skin cell until there was nothing left of him. 

“Oh, Eddie. Eddie...” She cooed, like she wasn’t the reason he was crying. He’d asked her to stop and she asked him why he didn’t love her anymore. 

He felt so dirty and so sick. He _did_ love her! He _did!_ Why wouldn’t she just believe him and _stop!?_

“It’s okay. I’m not selfish. Here—let me help you. Let Mommy show you...” 

Her hand went between his legs and Eddie would’ve screamed if he could get enough air in his lungs. He couldn’t ask her to stop because she would just misunderstand. If he just said, “I love you, Mommy! I love you!” she did whatever she was doing even harder, even faster. 

Eddie wanted to die. He just wanted to die and make this all _stop._

Eddie was still wheezing for air, even as he finished—shame and disgust filling every space and gap in between his each and every cell as he did. 

She licked her hand clean and Eddie could only stare at her in horror. That was _dirty!_ That wasn’t _clean!_ Why would she do that? Why would she do that!? Did… Did he make her think she had to do that?

“M-Mommy?” She brought his inhaler to his lips and made him take a breath. 

It didn’t help. It _still_ didn’t help.

“Okay, Eddie-bear. Okay. Time for a bath and then bed, okay? You have school in the morning. We can’t have you tired. If you’re too tired, you’ll get sick.”

She made him take a bath...just so she could touch him more. Eddie twitched and flinched any time she put her hands between his legs again. She was naked next to the tub, sitting on the floor she’d asked him to clean earlier.

She’d _planned_ this. 

She bathed him, touching each and every intimate place on his body for way too long as she scrubbed them. He was almost positive she had tried to clean inside of him, but his brain was starting to go foggy. He didn’t want to be present for this anymore. Not that he ever had… 

His mother drained the tub and made him stand up so she could dry him off with a towel. She lingered too long on his privates and Eddie felt himself start to cry again.

“Now, now. No pouting. You know you need to go to bed. I don’t want to see you getting another bad grade because you stayed up too late reading in your room.” She coupled this with a stern slap to his bottom that actually really hurt. She’d been getting upset with him because his grades were slipping, but how could she expect anything else when she kept him up so late making him prove that he still loved her? “You have that history test tomorrow and you’d better pass.” She popped him one last time, making Eddie feel every bit like he was five-years-old, then massaged the globe that she had struck with her burning hand. She had never hit him before—not even when he was really bad. But she started now...it started a week ago and hadn’t stopped. It was never more than a couple of swats, but Eddie didn’t know what he’d done to make her this upset.

All he did was everything she asked…

She dressed him in pajamas herself, then made him kiss her goodnight for way too long. Once she was out the door, Eddie threw himself down on his bed and screamed into his pillow—crying harder than should even be possible. 

Why, why, _why_ was she doing this to him!? 

Maybe an hour after he’d been left on his own, Eddie was called out of his thoughts by the light, rhythmic tapping on his bedroom window. Richie.

Always.

Every night. Like clockwork. Eleven p.m. on the dot.

“Whoa, you look like shit,” Richie whispered, finally learning to keep his volume down after having to hide under Eddie’s bed when his big mouth woke Eddie’s mom up a couple weeks ago.

“So do you.”

“Yeah...” Richie’s face was red, too. Not a good sign. Things had been rough for him at home lately since he got caught sneaking around the house one night getting ready to go to Eddie’s. His father had beaten him bloody—actually bloody. Eddie had taken care of the burst welts… 

Yeah… Things had gotten kind of more intimate between them since everything had come to light. Not intimate like Eddie and his mom, but...personal. 

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Um… Yeah. Yeah, a lot.” 

Eddie could’ve guessed as much since Richie wasn’t sitting down.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh… I don’t know really,” Richie said, his head down, any scrap of his humor that had been hanging on slipping away. “I kind of...ran away from home.” 

“What?”

“My dad, he...he caught me again. Mom wouldn’t make him stop and...and she _always_ makes him stop and this time she didn’t and I...I didn’t know what to do. He was _hurting_ me and I’m—I’m _sick of it,_ you know? I’m just… I’m fucking sick of it.” Richie sniffled and wiped his nose on his wrist. “They don’t like me. Nothing I do helps. Nothing I _say_ helps. My mom can’t even stand me. Nothing I do cheers her up and—and I’m just _sick_ of it.”

“Where are you going to go?” Eddie asked, thinking about how his mother had struck him and how he had no right to even be upset over it in comparison to what Richie’s parents did to him. He wished Richie could stay here with him...but not if it meant his mother would want _things_ from him too.

“I don’t know. I’m… I’m going to ask Ben at school tomorrow if I can stay at his place. Maybe him and Bill will let me couch surf. Or—Or, I don’t know, maybe Mike can get me work at his grandpa’s slaughterhouse and I can just get a place myself.” Richie sniffled again and Eddie gestured for him to lay down on his bed, which he did—on his side. Eddie wanted to touch him, but he still felt filthy so he kept his hands to himself. “Are you okay?” Richie asked, seeming to calm down after a minute or two with his head on Eddie’s pillow. 

He knew what went on in this house and yet never judged, never looked at anything in disgust. The bed was clean. His mother only brought him into her room now when she wanted...things. 

“It’s getting worse,” Eddie whispered, sitting down at Richie’s side. He stared at his hands, thinking about how much he wanted to clean them—and how he was out of sanitizer. He wanted to take a shower—not a bath, but a shower. Maybe one of their friends would let him use their shower after school.

But by then, what was the point? She’d make him filthy as soon as he came home.

And she always expected him to come right home…

“I hate it, Eds,” Richie said, his hand reaching out to touch Eddie’s leg. His touch, unlike Eddie’s mother’s, was comforting...warm. Not grabbing, not sticky or sweaty or pulling. Just Richie touching him, comforting him. “Let’s just run away. You and me. We can live like hobos. I know the way to the train yard. We can hitch a ride and go someplace nobody knows us.”

Eddie wished he could, but he couldn’t _do that_ to his mom. She was only doing this to him because she was so lonely—because he didn’t love her enough before and had to make up for it now. If he left her, it would break her heart and she could die...because of _him._

Besides, he was so sickly, he’d probably die of Tetanus before they even reached their first stop. Train yards were full of all kinds of rusted metal. Eddie would just slow Richie down…

“I could work odd jobs… I’d make enough to make sure you can still have your birth control pills—”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered. “That’s not funny.”

“But I’d do it, Eds. I’d look out for you. I wouldn’t make you do all that stuff to me...” 

“Well, duh, you’re a guy.” Eddie said, his mind coming up with an image that he had to very quickly shake away. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Richie said, so casually it was as if he were just comparing corduroy to denim. “I still wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to… And she shouldn’t be either.”

“Mom just lov—”

“Well, I love you and I don’t want you to do that stuff...” Richie said, looking at the hand he had touching Eddie’s leg. Eddie’s stomach did a flip, alarms going off in his head telling him something wasn’t right here. This wasn’t just another one of Richie’s late night visits where he gossiped about people at their school or told lame jokes or...or just wanted to make sure Eddie was alright. “Not if you didn’t want to.”

“What?” Eddie said, feeling his stomach twist even more. Maybe he’d misheard, but it sounded a whole fucking lot like Richie just told him he’d do this same gross stuff if Eddie _wanted_ him to—like Eddie would _ever, **ever**_ want to. 

“Nothing,” Richie said, pulling his hand back the slightest bit. He looked hurt and Eddie just didn’t understand. He felt like something in him was shattering. Richie was his _best friend._ Boys weren’t supposed to want to _do_ that with each other—why was Richie acting like he did!?

“Why the hell would—why the hell would you say that to me right now!?” Eddie snapped, almost forgetting to keep his voice down. 

Richie looked at him then, eyes made huge by the thick lenses of his glasses. They were red-rimmed and puffy, still, from the beating he’d gotten at home and for once—for one minute—Eddie didn’t feel sorry for him,

“What?” Richie stammered, sitting up though careful of his thighs. “I-I just—”

“Why would I ever _want_ this!? Especially from _you?”_

Rage not meant for Richie came spilling out of him, faster and faster until Eddie couldn’t even catch himself in time to take it back. He said awful things he didn’t even remember, and in the end, Richie just sat there and took it—and cried—and then apologized and slipped out the window into the night. 

Eddie stared out the window after him, heaving great, heavy breaths—realizing he was crying too. He was so angry he was _shaking._

Richie thought he _wanted_ this!?

( ) ( ) ( )

Richie found himself at the barrens in the pitch dark, dead of night, crying his face off in the mouth of a sewer pipe. He remembered coming here and looking for Georgie, spending his whole day teasing Eddie for being afraid of germs. He knew it was essentially a portal to death—a place where a monster lived. He was sitting outside of Nosferatu’s cave and he didn’t fucking care.

He hoped the clown came out and killed him, just to make the pain stop. 

His parents _hated_ him. His mother didn’t even _like_ him! He tried so hard, for _so long_ just to make her smile, just to make her happy that he was around. She abandoned him… She let his dad _hurt_ him and she didn’t care. She was no different than Bowers or the fucking clown. 

Richie just wished he knew what he did _wrong._ Besides being born—which he had no control over, by the way. Um, if you don’t want kids, keep your fucking legs closed, Mom! Maybe you should’ve tried the coat hanger method, Mom! She didn’t love him, his father didn’t love him—none of the people who were supposed to love him did. 

Why the fuck, why the actual _fuck,_ did he think Eddie would be any different? 

Why’d he have to go and say all that shit? Did he really think it was going to go any better than that awful day at the arcade? How was he supposed to know that was Conner fucking _Bowers!?_

Richie cried until he could hardly breathe anymore, the back of his mind taunting him with memories of Eddie wheezing until he got a hit from his inhaler. Sometimes it was like he did it just as a nervous tick, the way Richie adjusted his glasses all the time or fiddled with the change in his pockets, just to have something to do with his hands.

He didn’t know why he was still thinking about it—he’d never see Eddie again. That was for sure. He’d decided he was dropping out of school. He was quitting and that was it. He’d rather die than face Eddie again anyways, so as soon as he could walk, he was going straight to the train yard and catching the first coal carrier out of this shithole town. 

Richie had seen Eddie pissed of plenty of times, but never like tonight. Never directed at him like that… He was so embarrassed and hurt. Disappointed. He’d thought…

Richie had thought they’d gotten closer in the few months since Eddie told him his secret. Eddie fixed his injuries, even the welts his dad broke open with the belt. Eddie _literally_ saw him with his pants down and didn’t bat an eye. He thought they were the _same._ He thought Eddie might like him too… 

He’d been wrong. Now, not only had he ruined their friendship, he’d ruined his whole fucking life. He wanted Eddie and him to run off _together._ He wanted it to just be the two of them—out on their own. That was why he’d carved their initials in the fucking kissing bridge… He always wanted it to just be the two of them. Now it was all over and Richie didn’t know what to do. He had nowhere left to turn. 

His plan to stay with Ben was pointless now. It would just make Eddie avoid Ben, and Ben didn’t deserve that. 

It’d be better for everyone, Richie thought, for him to just get on the train and disappear. Maybe he’d leave a weird note for Bill somewhere, making it seem like the clown had come back and taken him. Hunting Pennywise would give Eddie a good distraction, too, even if he didn’t feel bad for Richie getting eaten by It. 

Train yard, Richie told himself, first thing in the morning. He was calming down a bit and moved from the mouth of the pipe to a space a little ways off in the grass. It was probably crawling with insects and all kinds of ick, but Richie didn’t care. Eddie saw him as filth anyway—may as well play the part. 

He laid on his side and hugged his knees to his chest, trying not to think of home and his bed. It didn’t do any good to dwell on things he couldn’t have. 

Sleeping out in the open, he learned, was his biggest oversight. 

Richie came to with someone grabbing him up by his shoulder. His first instinct was to scream and start kicking, until he recognized the blue uniform and nearly shit his pants. Cops. Fucking three of them. Fucking _fuck!_

He didn’t expect his parents to care enough to sick the cops on him. 

Even so, Richie ended up in the back of a police cruiser for playing hooky from school, the officer who had grabbed him and his partner making comments about what they’d do if he were their kid. Most of it led to a beating with the belt, which Richie thought was annoying and hilarious all things considered. 

If his dad tried to touch him again, Richie was going to punch him in the face. He was glad he was going to the jail. It kept him away from _them._ Only...he didn’t end up in jail. He ended up stuck in the lobby at the courthouse waiting for his mother who came in looking like a hot mess, hair all tangled in a bun on top of her head—no makeup on, looking like she’d been crying.

Did Dad hit her? Richie wondered to himself. She was acting like it. He hardly, if ever, saw her anything besides composed or angry. If this was an act, it was a really fucking good one as she wrapped her arms around him and started hugging him—then turned on the officer working behind the desk.

“You get those cuffs off my son! Now! He’s not some _criminal!”_

“Well, ma’am, he actually—”

“I said now!” It was the banshee scream Richie was afraid of and he tensed, even as her arm around his shoulder didn’t pose any kind of threat. 

The officer let Richie out of the cuffs that really were unnecessary, then asked if Richie’s mother would kindly step forward to sign some paperwork. She practically snarled at the man the entire time she did, then refused to sign three of the ten million pages, claiming it was bullshit. 

Meanwhile, Richie just stood behind her in shock. Who was this lady? It wasn’t his _mom._ His mom stood there and watched him get beaten bloody. His mom told him “I warned you this would happen” as her husband ripped him apart, all in the name of his “safety” because Mrs. Kaspbrak was a fucking pervy creep. 

Some other officer higher up on the food chain came out to talk to her, but then backed down pretty quick and said she didn’t have to sign whatever it was. 

“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” the officer said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Our apologies, Mrs. Tozier. Don’t worry about these forms at all, Mrs. Tozier. You have a good day now.”

“Maybe I just will,” she spat, as if the officer had told her to go fuck herself. Maybe he had in adult speak. “Come on, Richie!” 

It was during his walk to her car that he realized his clothes were muddy and his shoes were caked in dirt. He didn’t smell the best either and he doubted his mom found that very amusing. 

“Your father is at work,” his mom said, slamming her car door way harder than necessary. 

Richie shrunk down in his seat, not sure what to say to her. Sorry didn’t seem right, because he wasn’t. Sorry he got caught, maybe, but not sorry he upset her. Not sorry he left. 

“Just take off those filthy things when we get home and get in the bath.” She was speeding, something she didn’t often do when Richie was in the car with her—though something he heard his parents arguing about whenever she got a ticket—and they were home a lot sooner than they should be. 

Richie was half-tempted to sprint down the street as soon as the car rolled to a stop, but what good would it do? She’d just chase him down… 

So Richie just did as he was told, literally stripping down to his underwear in the entry room of their house because his mom didn’t want him smearing mud everywhere. At least his underwear were clean—where they weren’t, you know, stuck to him and bloody. Because of her husband. Because of _her._

He knew she saw the marks extending down the backs of his thighs as he was made to go upstairs with her guarding the steps to “make sure” he did what she said. He knew she saw and he hoped she was sorry, because he vowed that he would never, _ever_ forgive her. All he wanted was to help his friend, to comfort his _friend,_ and this was what happened. He lost all dignity and pride, and he lost his best friend, too. He hoped she was happy. 

Consider it lesson learned.

Showering, Richie had long ago learned, with a busted ass hurt like a bitch. The water stung like acid and the soap made all of his open sores sting as if he’d rubbed lemon juice into a paper cut. Still, Eddie’s words teased the back of his mind.

“If you don’t clean them, they’ll get infected, dumbass. You want them to amputate your ass cheek?”

Richie told him no, because then his pants wouldn’t look as good. He said he kind of liked the way they hugged his curves. 

“They hug your curves alright. Do you even _know_ there’s blood on your pants? Because there’s blood on the ass of your pants.”

“Good news,” Richie had told him, playing it off. “Guess that means we’re not pregnant.” 

Eddie said something after that, but Richie couldn’t remember what. He’d thought, because Eddie agreed, that Eddie had been looking—that Eddie _noticed_ him that way. He was wrong. All Eddie saw was the blood.

Richie was just another mess he compulsively needed to clean up. It wasn’t love like Richie thought. He wasn’t loved by anyone. Slowly, Richie was making himself doubt if he could even love either. You have to love yourself to be loved, right? Well, guess that explained everything.

Once he could no longer take the sting of soap in his open wounds, Richie quickly rinsed off and got out of the shower. It hurt to even dab at himself with the towel...it hurt to have it wound around his waist so he could go to his bedroom for clean clothes. 

It scared the shit out of him when he went into his bedroom to find his mother sitting on his bed, hugging something in her arms while staring at his dresser. She looked like she was having a nervous breakdown and suddenly, for no reason, his brain suggested she was about to do to him what Eddie’s mom did. He froze, hand gripping his towel a little tighter, as he turned to look at him. Her hair was still a rat’s nest and now her face was streaked with tears. A little late to be this sorry, Richie thought, but it hurt him to see her like this at all. Especially because of him. 

He didn’t mean to make her _cry._ He didn’t think she’d _care._

“E-Excuse me, miss,” he stammered, doing his best impersonation of an old film star, slight twinge of a mobster accent. “You seem to be in the wrong room. You see here, this is a—a men’s room.” She didn’t laugh or smile and he felt his heart sink. She didn’t find him funny. She never had and she never would… He didn’t know why he still bothered. 

Richie let his head drop, but didn’t move any further into the room. He stayed at the door, clutching his towel anxiously. What did she _want?_

“Richie,” she said, her voice cracking. Oh, no… If she cried, he was going to cry. 

Don’t look at her, he told himself. Just don’t look at her. 

“Richie, honey, you get dressed and then come downstairs, okay?” He heard her move and tensed, keeping his head low. If she wanted him to meet her downstairs, why was she in his room in the first place? It scared him when she paused to hug him—so terrified that his fear was right and she was about to try pulling his towel away and do sick things like Eddie’s mom. What the fuck was in the water in this fucking town!?

Only his mother just hugged him and kissed his wet hair, then walked away. He realized, though, that what she’d been holding was one of his stuffed animals from when he was a little kid. It was a toy lion, shaped more like a teddy bear than anything. It had been his “first” toy, so he hadn’t been allowed to get rid of it when he outgrew plush animals. He hadn’t seen it in a long time, though, and had always figured it was buried down in the basement. Where was his mom hiding it this whole time? And why…?

Richie slowly got himself dressed, choosing loose-fitting shorts so his wounds wouldn’t chafe any worse than they had been. He noticed things in his bedroom had been moved—classwork shifted around, books taken off his shelf and set on his dresser…

What had his mom been doing in here? 

He didn’t give himself much time to dwell on it. She was waiting for him and he didn’t want to get hit any worse than he was already going to be when his dad got home… If he couldn’t find a chance to make a break for the door first.

His mother had made a sandwich for him, but she herself was drinking a glass of wine when he found her in the living room. She had set the plate on the coffee table and gestured toward it when he came in. Something in his mind wondered if she’d poisoned it. That was how this would play out in a scary movie right? She actually snapped, killed his dad, and was now going to kill him too—but first she’d want to knock him out so he wouldn’t feel any pain. 

She waited until he’d taken a couple of bites before she started talking to him, furthering Richie’s fear that this was about to go very, very badly for him.

“Richie, I… I wanted to say I’m sorry. Not just for last night, but...” She looked away toward the wall, a tear cutting down her cheek that she hurriedly wiped away. It hurt him to see her like that—to see her crying and drinking because he fucked up and he made his dad angry.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, wincing when she shook her head angrily and took another drink from her glass.

“It’s not. It’s not, Richie. You didn’t deserve it and...and I should’ve gotten in the way. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve...” He didn’t think she was drunk, but he could tell now that she hadn’t slept since he’d run away.

All the missing kids, he suddenly realized. She didn’t know it was the clown, or that the clown was dead—at least for the next twenty-some years. She thought Richie had run away and might’ve gotten taken. Knowing she would at least be upset if he died gave him some comfort. 

“I just wanted to tell you that...that it _won’t_ happen again. I won’t… I won’t let him touch you. If he touches you, you tell me. I’ll blow his fucking brains out and I don’t even care,” she said, voice shaking. She drank more of her wine, then stared down at her lap. Richie didn’t know what to say to her, so he just kept trying to eat more of the sandwich that felt like glue in his mouth. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you just want to help your friend. I just wanted to keep you safe, and I didn’t keep you safe.” She sniffled, and then drank more. When her glass was empty and she stood up, he wholly expected her to go for a refill. Instead, she ended up sitting next to him on the couch and began hugging him. 

Richie didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t know if he was in trouble or if she was just at her breaking point—he didn’t know whether or not he should trust this, or if he’d be getting his hopes up just to have them beaten out of him when his dad got home. 

For the moment, though, Richie closed his eyes and just let it happen. He let her hug him and kiss his head, let her pull him into her chest to hold him like he was six-years-old again and crying over the monster in his closet. 

Maybe he didn’t make her laugh and couldn’t make her smile, but maybe she still loved him. She, only she, still loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long on this! It's a dark place to go and I'm finally back in that place. Not sure if for better or for worse. Kind of like Richie's mom in this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been...nine months. I have no excuse. My bad, y'all. Have some whump you didn't ask for.

Their group was dwindling. Bev had left town long ago and Mike spent more time working on the farm. Then it was Richie who withdrew, just about the same time that Eddie withdrew. At lunch, Eddie sat at the table quiet and distracted. Richie didn’t join them at all. Richie hadn’t sat with him since the night Eddie had made him cry… 

The guilt sat with him, day in and day out, but Eddie hardly felt it. Too many other feelings festered in his chest for his guilt for how he’d treated Richie to take precedent. Eddie wasn’t sorry… Not really. If Richie thought Eddie wanted those things to happen to him, Richie wasn’t his friend. It didn’t matter if he used to come by every night to offer comfort… It was all fake. It was all...the same tactic Eddie’s mom used against him. He made it look like he cared, but only because he wanted something.

That was all anyone did. Ever. They acted nice because they wanted things. It made it so hard for Eddie to even see the other Losers as his friends. 

“I h-hear he’s b-been smo-smoking cigarettes in the b-b-boiler room,” Bill said as Ben and Stan tried to come up with reasons for Richie’s absence from their table—as if it wasn’t common occurrence. At this point, it’d be weirder if he joined them. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been hanging out with Dodson,” Ben added.

Derick Dodson was a new student at their school, supposedly expelled from his last school for being a real delinquent. He claimed to have spray painted the bathrooms, cursed out teachers, and smoked in the cafeteria right in front of the teachers at that school. His parents were divorced and he lived with his mom who the rest of the mothers in town shunned. (The rumor went that she had had an affair and her husband kicked her and her son out. Supposedly, Derick wasn’t her ex-husband’s actual son, either. Housewives of Derry, beware! This scrawny, haggard-looking woman was out to steal your man!) 

Somehow or other, Richie clicked with him and they started hanging out almost as soon as he’d started at their school. If he wasn’t with Derick, he was alone. He didn’t come by the clubhouse. He didn’t come by Eddie’s bedroom late at night anymore. He didn’t join them at the movies, even if Bill practically begged. 

Richie wanted nothing to do with them and Eddie knew it was his fault. He knew it and he felt guilty for it, and he tamped that down under the crushing weight of everything else he was trying to deal with. 

“I heard Richie’s parents might be divorcing,” Stan said quietly, looking down at his neatly packaged lunch. “Did you guys...hear anything about that?”

“About time,” Eddie mumbled, not even realizing the words slipped out.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie said, head snapping up. He examined the cafeteria like a boy awaking from a dream, trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten there. 

“D-Did Richie s-s-say so-something to you?” Bill asked, eyes fixed on Eddie’s. Eddie could only stare back at him, not sure what to even say. 

“Um… No. Just, you know. His parents were always weird.”

“Weird? How?” Stan asked, looking as confused as the rest of them. Eddie regretted speaking. 

“Well, his dad was always kind of...creepy?”

Everyone just stared at him, like he knew something they didn’t. And he guessed he sort of did, because none of them had Richie climbing in their bedroom window late at night needing help caring for his injuries. Eddie shrugged off the rest of their questions and faded back out. He went through the rest of his school day in that awful cloud, not connected to anyone or anything. He caught sight of Richie leaving the school with Derick Dodson.

Eddie watched him walking away, walking close to that new guy. Somewhere, probably a place even deeper than his guilt and his grief, Eddie felt jealousy start to swell up. Where were they off to? Did Derick know about Richie’s dad? Did Richie tell him about Eddie? Or his mom? Or what he’d said to Eddie the last time he was in Eddie’s room?

Eddie stopped at the corner to let a car go by, staring off ahead of him at the traffic and Richie’s form getting further and further away. Derick walked so close to him that sometimes it looked like their shoulders brushed. 

And then, Richie was looking back over his shoulder. Their eyes met and Eddie felt his entire body grow hot. Eddie was still standing on the corner, several cars having gone past the stop sign at the intersection where he just stood...emptily staring. 

Did Richie sense him there? Why did he look back? Why did his gaze steal all the air from Eddie’s lungs?

His hands grappled for his inhaler and he cast his gaze down to the pavement as he brought it to his lips. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as he took in a deep breath, and by the time he’d opened them, Richie and Derick were both gone. 

Wasn’t there a time he and Richie used to walk side-by-side like that? Or a time their whole group of friends walked together in a cluster as far as they could get before splitting up to get home? Now, it seemed like everyone just went their own way… And Eddie had never felt lonelier. 

When he got home, his mother was sitting in the living room watching television and painting her nails, dressed in a blue, floral dress with a white, stained apron over it so she wouldn’t ruin it while painting her nails. The dress was new. All of her clothes were, because he’d gained another fifteen pounds at least. She ate enough for three people these days while Eddie picked at the tiny portions he served himself. She always wanted him to eat more, but he couldn’t. His stomach was always in knots and eating made him feel that much worse when she…

Eddie kissed her cheek as she welcomed him home, then told her he was going to sit at the table and do his homework. He would prefer to do it in his room, but going upstairs almost always had her following. She asked about his day and he told her minimal details while staring at math worksheets. If he mentioned his friends’ names, she would just say rude things about them. If he mentioned teachers’ names, she’d say rude things about them. If he said much of anything, she had something not so nice to say. So Eddie had learned to say he ate lunch and what he’d been taught that day. 

As he did his work, Eddie’s mind kept circling back to the look Richie had passed him on the street. Why did he look back at all? Did he know Eddie was there? Did he sense him? It’d been a long time since they’d even spoken to one another, yet Eddie could still feel Richie’s presence in the hallways if he was near at school. One time, he even felt him in the grocery store only to come around the aisle to see him standing there with his mom. Richie had looked at him then, too, and didn’t say anything. 

Of course, neither of their moms acknowledged the other. They weren’t friends. Eddie’s mom didn’t have friends.

That was why she held so tightly to Eddie. 

And so she did… After dinner, Eddie was made to lay with her on the couch. Before long, she had him lay with her in bed… 

Richie wouldn’t make him do these things, he’d said. Unless he wanted to.

Why would he _ever_ want to?

Everything that happened made Eddie sick to his stomach. Everything that happened made Eddie want to cry. Why would he want to have someone _else_ make him feel this way, too?

She let him bathe after, helping—of course—but didn’t let him sleep in his own room. He was trapped next to her, wide awake in fear she’d touch him again and then because of her loud snoring. Eddie lay awake and cried, staring at he ceiling while trying to work up the courage to go back to his own room. She’d be upset with him, but he could tell her he couldn’t sleep. She’d apologize then for making him tired and putting his health at risk…

Or she’d cry and scream at him for being so cruel to her.

One of the two… It would go one of those two ways. Or, he could lay still and know that in the morning she’d be in a good mood and he could escape to school where he wouldn’t talk about it and never stop thinking about it. 

And that, Eddie realized, was his whole life.

( ) ( ) ( )

Derick was good at arcade games and liked action movies. He used to play baseball at his old school where the rumors about him weren’t actually true except for one—the one that hadn’t made its way to Derry just yet.

He and Richie sat in the boiler room in the school’s basement sharing cigarettes and secrets about as often as they swapped spit. 

Derick was nice, but dumb. He had no backbone, but somehow managed to be a nuisance to most of their teachers because he wouldn’t do his school work. His mother was a hardcore drunk who always had weirdos over, he said, so he didn’t have time for homework or studying. He spent most of his time at Richie’s place. Richie’s mom knew what was going on. His dad either didn’t see or it or didn’t want to. 

Derick was a fine distraction from other things. It was nice to be around someone who wanted to be around him. Richie liked him more at the start when things had been shiny new and exciting, but he didn’t have it in him to chase Derick off when he realized his feelings for the other boy had all but faded into nothing more than tolerance. 

He felt a little bit guilty, but what else was he supposed to do? Stop spending time with Derick who actually laughed at his jokes because he’d rather sit with Eddie who didn’t even talk to him anymore? Richie fucked that friendship up and it was never going to come back. He was sure Eddie had told everyone else what he’d said because they’d seemed to be acting weird after that final night he’d come by Eddie’s house. He was sure Eddie told them what he was, so he gave up the idea of being friends with any of them after that. 

Derick was at least the same kind of twisted, messed up freak as him. Richie didn’t have to feel ashamed around him. He was bored to tears most of the time, but that was better than being ashamed. It was better to feel lonely and empty in another guy’s presence than it was to feel insecure and afraid. 

Ever since the weird, drunk conversation his mother had had with him, Richie’s father hadn’t struck him a single time. Not even when Richie acted out to test the man’s limits. He just told Richie to get out of his face and that was the end of it. No more beatings. No more pain… 

His mother had had the ability to put an end to it all along and just...hadn’t. Richie felt betrayed, not comforted. 

He hardly talked to his mom, having given up his attempts to make her laugh or smile at his jokes or his voices. He didn’t talk to his dad unless he was spoken to first. The only person Richie really talked to outside of school was Derick. Richie didn’t love him, didn’t really even have a crush on him anymore, but he was companionship. He didn’t scream at Richie for suggesting they do things together. So far it was just sloppy kissing and messy handjobs while hidden under the covers, but it was more than he could ever have expected to get from the person he actually wanted to do this with. 

At least with Derick he didn’t have to feel...bad about himself. 

Richie never meant to hurt Eddie, but he’d been punished enough. It was time to move on and let go. He couldn’t help Eddie. He couldn’t save him. Eddie wouldn’t have wanted him to, anyway. Eddie hadn’t wanted him involved. 

Richie spent his days in a bubble, thinking and not thinking at the same time, distracting himself with Derick’s attention. 

He still noticed it any day Eddie was out sick. He could still feel it in his chest, a burn like after swallowing soup that was too hot, whenever Eddie was nearby. It was hard not to let it show, not to let it slip. Eddie probably hated his guts after what Richie had said to him that night—no, Richie knew for a fact that Eddie did hate his guts—and having Richie smile at him or get excited to see him would just cause a wave of disgust to cross his face. Richie knew it.

Eddie was the only person who knew what kind of freak he was, unless he’d told the others (though Richie seriously doubted that). That made him untouchable. The Berlin Wall may as well have burst out of the ground between them. It didn’t matter if Richie’s heart literally fucking burned for him. Eddie hated his guts and it was better for everyone if Richie just kept to himself. Life got easier when he didn’t have to constantly be surrounded by memories of the clown, anyway.

Richie had things figured out…

Or so he thought.

Derick had just left to go home for dinner and Richie was still waiting for his mom to stop burning the fuck out the chicken so he could eat, too, when he felt that hot soup feeling in his chest. It came on so suddenly that he almost felt sick, he almost grabbed for the wastebasket beside his bed in case he suddenly needed to vomit. A moment later and he heard someone knocking on the door and knew… He knew it was Eddie, but not why or what he could possibly want.

Richie didn’t make it to the door before his mother had, which meant Eddie had been let inside and his mother was already back in the kitchen—out of earshot and unable to be used as an excuse for why Eddie couldn’t come in. 

Just looking at Eddie made Richie’s stomach twist and flutter in all of the worst ways. Why hadn’t those feelings died? Why couldn’t they just go away? Why did Eddie even _come here!?_

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie said, looking at him like a deer in headlights, like he was the one caught off guard. 

“Hey…” Richie felt his head fill with static, no witty one-liner coming to mind as he stared at Eddie with a good few feet of space between them. 

“Um… I saw Derick Dodson leaving,” Eddie said, eyes tracing the floor a second before coming back to land on Richie’s face.

“Yeah. He went home for dinner.” It was unfair that Eddie’s presence still made Richie’s heart ache. It was just so unfair… It was cruel of him to come here. Cruel of him to ask about Derick. “Shouldn’t you be at home? For dinner?” 

“I told Mom I was at the library.”

“She lets you skip meals now?” Richie asked, doubting that very much. 

“I’ll eat later.”

“I’m sure you will,” Richie said, unable to hold it back. The repulsed look on Eddie’s face told him he got the joke...if it could even be considered as such. 

He wanted Eddie to go away. He wanted Eddie to be anywhere else besides in his foyer. As far as Richie was concerned, they had nothing to say to each other. Richie had kept his distance, his silence, so Eddie didn’t need to show up unannounced to tell him he was a freak and to stay away from him. Richie left him to the Losers and went off on his own. That should be enough. 

“Look, can we… Can we talk?” Eddie asked, peering off toward Richie’s kitchen as if he was afraid his mom would overhear. 

Richie took in a deep breath and held it. It had been months and _now_ Eddie wanted to talk?

“I have to eat dinner in a few minutes. What do you want?” Richie asked, hoping his mom hadn’t started the whole thing off with, ‘Oh, Eddie! It’s been a while. Are you staying for dinner?’ That would just ruin everything.

“Why don’t you hang out with us anymore?” Eddie asked, like he had any right to ask that question.

“Uh, because I grew up. Is that all?”

“Grew up? All you do is hang out with Derick—”

“Yeah. Like I said,” Richie answered, keeping his expression blank. If Eddie couldn’t take a hint, that was his problem. 

Apparently, he couldn’t. “I don’t see why that means you can’t hang out with us.”

“Maybe because I don’t want to,” Richie said. Eddie just stared at him, like he didn’t understand. 

The door behind him opened and Richie’s father was coming in, making an angry face already because Eddie and Richie were both in his way. 

“In or out, Rich. You can’t stand in the goddamned doorway all night.” That was all the man cared to say to him as he came in and made his way to the kitchen to check what time food was going to be done—probably pissed off it wasn’t done already. 

“Why don’t you want to be our friend anymore?” Eddie asked. Richie scoffed at that. 

“Why would you want to be my friend, Eddie?” Richie would never forget how he’d felt that night after leaving Eddie’s room. How ashamed and embarrassed he’d felt… How _alone._ He’d misjudged the situation in such a major, major way. How dare Eddie come rub his nose in it now that he’d finally gotten over it? Or at least he’d thought he had. With Eddie here staring at him, Richie just felt it all over again—the mortification, the shame. He could feel all the things he’d lost as they were ripped out of his hands and though he desperately wanted to grab it all back up again, he knew he couldn’t. Eddie didn’t want to be friends. He just wanted someone he could cry to about his secrets without doing anything to change the situation he was in.

Richie had been ready to run away to get away from his dad. Eddie did nothing to escape his mom.

“See, this is why I wanted to _talk,”_ Eddie said, brow furrowing with that familiar annoyance Richie once used to crave. He’d come up with the most outlandish jokes to get him to make faces like that. Now, it made the butterflies start up but nothing more. Richie felt no warmth seeing it. No affection. Just giddy nerves. Stupid… It was stupid. 

“Well, I have to eat dinner so… Maybe some other time.” 

“No, not some other time! You’ve been ignoring us for months. And… And why? I mean, all you ever seem to want to do is hang out with Derick. What’s so special about him?”

If it weren’t for Richie’s parents in the next room, he would’ve told him the truth. Instead, what ended up coming out was, “He can beat me at Street Fighter.”

“What?” Eddie’s face screwed up like he couldn’t comprehend the language Richie had spoken.

“He can beat me at Street Fighter.”

“So that’s why you won’t talk to me or to Stan or Ben or Bill? Because Derick can beat you at Street Fighter?”

Richie shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not like any of you guys ever wanted to play. I figure, what’s the point, you know? We have nothing in common. Better to cut my losses and hang out with someone who’s actually like me.”

“Just because I don’t like spending my whole day at the arcade doesn’t mean I don’t like you…”

“No. You made that clear in other ways,” Richie said, turning his head toward the kitchen where his parents were already bickering in hushed voices. “Dinner’s going to be ready soon. I can’t keep… You need to go.”

“But, Rich—”

“Tell the Losers I said hi.” 

No matter what Eddie tried to say to him, Richie just talked over him and closed in on him until he got him outside the door and could close it. There was not a second that Eddie let their skin touch and that was proof enough that the other boy didn’t really want to be around him. Bill probably put him up to it or something. 

Richie ate his dinner of burnt chicken without tasting it, giving a made up answer when his mother asked what Eddie wanted and why he didn’t stick around for dinner. She was happy Richie didn’t hang out with him anymore, even if she wasn’t the biggest fan of Derick or his mom. His drunken mother was better than Mrs. K. She, at least, wasn’t a threat. 

For a moment, Richie felt an odd nostalgia for his friends. His _old_ friends. He missed making fun of Stan’s prim and proper nature. He missed teasing Bill about his stutter and the way Bill would bounce the insults right back. He missed Mike and, somehow, even missed the boring history lessons Ben would gab at them about over lunch when he wasn’t musing over magazines full of pictures of buildings. It’d only been a few months, but to Richie it almost felt like years. He felt so removed from everything.

So…lonely. 

After he’d cleared his plate, Richie went up to his room and laid down in bed, staring at the ceiling with his lights off. Usually, he would’ve left and gone to Derick’s house. It beat laying alone like this, even if he felt alone laying on Derick’s bedroom floor next to him. 

Yeah, it’d be nice to hang out at Bill’s place and share blankets with everyone and watch stupid movies while gobbling up popcorn. Yeah, it’d be kind of fun to hang out at Stan’s and enjoy the snacks his mom always made. Yeah, it’d be nice...but it wasn’t possible. It’d been too long and he’d look weird coming back now. He’d made this bed, and he was going to lay in it.

And he did… He stayed in bed staring at the ceiling feeling sad and empty and sorry for himself. It was his own fault he was even in this position. Things would’ve been fine if he hadn’t gotten the wrong idea about Eddie—if he hadn’t been weak and stupid like he was that night. 

If he’d kept his big mouth shut, he’d still have friends and life. 

It nagged at him like a toothache until Richie found his cheeks wet and raw from tears. All he’d wanted was to help Eddie, to get him away from that monster. He just wanted to run away together...to be together. His heart felt crushed, pulverized. 

What he wanted, just couldn’t be…

( ) ( ) ( )

Eddie didn’t know who he was trying to fool, but when he saw Derick and Richie heading down the side hallway toward the boiler room together during lunch period, he tucked his chin and followed after them. He felt his skin starting to prickle with nervous sweat, afraid he’d get caught by a teacher even though Richie and Derick somehow never had. Eddie had never had the best luck.

He followed from a few paces back and listened as the two of them went on and on about some space invader movie they saw at the theater together. Richie was putting on the voice of one of the aliens and doing a really shitty job, but Derick Dodson was chuckling like he actually found it funny. 

Then, just as Richie was about to open the door that had BOILER ROOM stenciled onto it in cautionary red letters, he turned around and caught Eddie before he could duck behind the bend in the stairs.

“Uh… Can we help you, Eds?” Richie asked, looking taken aback. Derick froze, not even turning his head. 

“I...wanted to see what was so cool down here,” Eddie said. He’d had something else he’d planned to say, but the words left him now. 

“Go back upstairs. You’re gonna get us caught,” Richie said, looking annoyed. Somehow, his annoyance made the rejection easier to bear and Eddie came further into view, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No. Let me see what’s so cool that you want to sit down here all the time, maybe then I’ll go.”

Derick turned around then and looked Eddie up and down.

“You friends with this preschooler?” He asked. 

Eddie’s eyes narrowed and Derick kind of fidgeted when Richie didn’t answer.

“Well, if you want to sit down here, you have to shut up. We almost got caught last week. Hurry up. Let’s go.” Richie pushed open the door and hurried into the dark with Derick behind him—Derick who didn’t bother to hold the door open for Eddie, making him have to run to catch it before it slammed shut. 

The room was dark and buzzed noisily. It immediately gave him the creeps and he couldn’t see how Richie, who had gone through all the same things in the sewer that Eddie had, could bear to sit down here. 

He and Derick seemed to have a spot underneath and orange lamp near a window that was covered with old, yellowed newspaper. They sat on stacks of old newspapers and magazines that were probably crawling with mold or bugs, and lit up cigarettes as soon as they could. Eddie thought it was strange at first when Richie lit his cigarette by holding it to Derick’s—while Derick’s was being held between his lips. 

Then he realized what was happening. It fell on him like a bucket of ice water. 

“You want one?” Derick asked while Eddie was still gaping at them. 

Richie laughed at that, pulling his ankles up onto his stack of newspapers and crossing them. “Dude. no. Eddie’s got asthma. If you give him a cigarette, he’ll probably fucking die.”

“Then what the hell’s he doing down here?” 

“Beats me,” Richie answered. 

Eddie felt like he was standing in front of Bowers and his friends for a moment. Out of place. Intimidated. Richie really didn’t seem like himself at all. In a way, he almost seemed threatening. Eddie half expected him to start calling Eddie names or to get up and threaten to put the cigarette out on him, or try to force him to smoke one. 

“Are you enjoying the show?” Richie asked. “Now you know what’s so cool. What are you still doing here?”

“Are… Are you really going to sit down here smoking cigarettes all period?” Eddie asked.

“That’s the idea,” Derick answered.

“What about… What about lunch? Like, aren’t you hungry? Or something…?” Eddie’s eyes searched Richie’s face for any spark or glimmer of the friend he remembered. Richie who would bring him food—Richie who was always hungry. 

“He really is a preschooler. Jesus,” Derick said, chuckling like he did at Richie’s bad jokes. 

“Cigarettes zap your appetite,” Richie said, ashing onto the floor without a care in the world. “This way I can spend my lunch money on other things.”

“What, like more cigarettes?” Eddie asked. 

“Yeah. Mostly.” 

“So that’s what you do now? Skip lunch and get cancer?” 

Richie shrugged and looked at Derick with a smile. He used to smile at Eddie like that… No, this wasn’t _fair._ They’d had one fight! Just the one fight and now Richie was off with...with Derick Dodson, getting cancer and making fun of him. 

“Look, did you want something? I already know this isn’t your scene, so you don’t have to stick around.” Richie took another drag from his cigarette, the ember burning bright orange in the dim light. Eddie didn’t like seeing him like this. 

“I just...thought we could hang out,” Eddie said, swallowing hard as he cast his eyes to the floor—not wanting to see Derick sneer at him. 

“Well, we can hang out tomorrow after school or something. You don’t have to sit down here.”

“Yeah, but you won’t hang out after school—”

“Says who?” Richie snapped, voice rough as he held in the poisonous smoke from that awful cigarette. “We can go ride bikes or something… If your mom’ll let you.” 

Eddie looked up, alarmed. He expected to see Derick laughing, or him and Richie sharing some cruel, knowing look that would mean Richie spilled his secret. Only Derick was looking at Richie like he hated him for suggesting he was about to spend the next afternoon with someone besides him. 

“I’ll… Sure. Um, meet at your place?” Eddie asked, eyes scanning Richie’s face—trying to see if there was something cruel or some sign of deception in his sharp features. If anything, Richie just looked sad as he sat there puffing his cigarette. 

“Sure. But don’t expect me to sit around all night. If you’re not coming, call so I can go do something else.” He looked over at Derick then and the two shared a smile, Derick seeming assuaged and losing that look of hostility he’d had. 

“I’ll be there,” Eddie said, nodding. 

Richie stared at him a moment then shrugged and asked, “Why are you still standing there? You’re going to catch cancer. Get out of here.” 

Derick laughed and Eddie found himself awkwardly backing out of the boiler room. He was a little excited at the prospect of hanging out the following day, but after seeing Richie down there in the dark with Derick, he had more questions than answers.

Was he really doing _those things_ with Derick? He couldn’t understand it. First Richie wanted to do them with him, and now...Derick? _Those_ things? Like they were boyfriends or something…?

The shock must’ve shown on Eddie’s face, because when he sat down his friends were all over him—asking if he was alright, asking where he’d gone. He didn’t tell them about the boiler room or seeing Richie. It felt like gossip. Richie wouldn’t want him to tell, Eddie thought. That was probably why he wanted to hang out tomorrow, to make sure Eddie kept Richie’s secret the way Richie kept his…

He guessed he’d find out the next day after school. To do that, though, he had to make sure his mom didn’t find out. There was no way she’d let him go. At least not without a lot of cold remarks and tears. It was easier to ask forgiveness than permission with her… He would pay for his crimes either way. She’d force him to prove his love either way. There was no avoiding it...but he could put it off an hour or two to spend time with Richie. 

He had to.


End file.
